


The Pack Survives

by Ashling, herequeerandreadytofight



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Everything, Comedy, Drama, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Romance, we've got it all, why are they queer? because we said so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:13:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13719396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/herequeerandreadytofight/pseuds/herequeerandreadytofight
Summary: It all begins when Alfie, May, and Tommy are are attacked by unknown enemies and stuck overnight in the woods. But it certainly doesn't end there.Tommy must find a way to balance his role as head of the Shelby family and head of the Peaky Blinders. Also, Alfie learns his fate, May seeks her calling, and Ada finds her heart.Romance, intrigue, murder, politics, and family. Not necessarily in that order.





	1. “I can see why you like him.”

At the moment that Alfie Solomons came to save his life, Tommy Shelby was not puzzling over paperwork in the office, nor looking over the horses in his stables, nor spending time with his young son, nor any of the dozens of perfectly reasonable activities which would have put him within the protection of the dozens of Peaky Blinders and staff that populated his massive estate. Instead, to Alfie’s exasperation, Tommy was standing at the mouth of a trail leading into the woods, with his hand on the flank of a beautiful bay horse. On the Thoroughbred sat a short woman, a thoroughbred herself. She wore such a particularly fixed expression that although Tommy’s face was partly obscured by the shadow she made against the evening sun, it was a fair bet that he was attempting to seduce her with that fucking low voice of his. Either that, or he was threatening her for all she was worth. Once Alfie rode into earshot, it became a little clearer.

“May, look at me.”

And now she did, and her gaze could cut glass. “I am, Tommy. That’s the problem.”

Alfie was intelligent enough to know when his presence was not necessarily wanted, but old and battered enough to know he didn’t give a fuck. He strode forward as confidently as his bastard knee would allow him. Even Tommy’s luminous fucking eyes and cheekbones didn’t eclipse the beauty on the horse, and even she didn’t change the basic fucking aspects of this fucking situation.

“Tommy!” he cried once he was closer, the conversation between the pair intense enough to distract them from the blustering gangster until he was only a couple meters away. “How’s it going, mate? Listen, we’ve got a bit of an issue, yeah?”

Tommy’s jaw twitched. “What is it, Alfie?”

The woman on the horse was turning her horse to slowly circle around the two men, coolly inspecting Alfie top to bottom. It was the only way a lady could get some of her own back for being interrupted without devolving into unladylike behavior, and with the combination of her horse-aided height and perfect pursed lips, it was a fairly brutal punishment.

If he was a weaker man, he might have shivered under her appraisal. If he was a weaker man, he might have fallen to his knees and proposed. However.

“Well, I didn’t want to intrude on this scenic picture, but we’ve got a bit of an issue at the bakery. The kind of trouble that I wouldn’t talk about on the fucking phone. It’s urgent, mate.”

The woman on the horse quirked a delicate eyebrow at this, and Alfie wondered for a split second if he had stepped in it. Then again, if he got to ruin Thomas Shelby’s day (or date), he’d chalk that up as a win for him and a much-needed distraction.  
  
Tommy sighed, stroking the Thoroughbred’s flank. “Right.”

“I didn’t know you were involved with bakeries, Tommy,” said the woman.

“I’m a businessman, May. Got to diversify.”

“Away from shipping and towards pastries?”

“May, this is Alfie Solomons. Who is, yes, a baker. And a prominent civic leader, not unlike myself. Alfie, this is May Carleton.”

“And what is it you’re going to say I do?” said May.

Tommy gave her a look. “You defy definition. And on occasion, you train my racehorses.”

“That I do.” This time, when she stared at Alfie, it was a touch more bearable. “I don’t suppose you have racehorses that need training, what with your...civic leadership? My stables are expanding this spring.”

Alfie doffed his hat. “Unfortunately, I come from down Camden way. No real room for horses in London.” Checking his pocket watch, he cleared his throat. “Speaking of, Tommy, this does require your leadership abilities. So if Mrs. Carleton don’t mind—”

“Lady Carleton.”

Alfie made one of his inscrutable expressions, the nuances of which were lost under his thick beard.

Bang!

Shots rang out, splintering a tree just a hairsbreadth away from Tommy’s head.

“Fuck!” Tommy hurled himself behind a tree, as the horse bolted into the woods at such a pace it was a miracle May was not flung into the grass.

“Who the fuck are they?” Alfie roared beside him, as they both shot back at what seemed to be six or seven men.

“I don’t know!”

They might have stayed and died there, as neither one of them was willing to shout the obvious: there’s too many! Luckily, only a second later, pain seared through Tommy’s arm, rendering the gun useless and reminding him that he did not, in fact, want to die.

“Fuck!” He yanked at Alfie’s vest, shoved him towards the trail, and lurched after him. It always seemed that the air went sticky when people were shooting at him, that he could not possibly be moving his limbs fast enough to run. But his brain reported that he was in fact sprinting headlong through the underbrush.

They made their way through the dense woods behind the mansion, Alfie limping behind Tommy, who followed the trail that the runaway horse had taken. Fortunately, May had been born riding, and after a few minutes managed to soothe the panicked horse into a lively trot, then to a halt. She couldn’t do the same for herself, however. Her heart continued to beat quickly as she waited for Tommy to catch up. After a few minutes he did, breathing heavily and clutching his bloody arm. Alfie was only a few feet behind with a positively dangerous look in his eyes and his black trilby somewhere in the woods. After a moment of dead silence, they found they could not hear the footsteps of pursuers.

“Must’ve lost them at one of the forks in the trail,” Tommy panted.

They all looked at each other.

“Tommy,” said May in a deceptively calm voice, “What the fuck was that?”

“Well, baking’s a competitive business, now, innit,” said Alfie. He handed over his scarf to Tommy, who leaned against a tree and tried to wrap up his right arm with his left hand. After a couple seconds of watching him fumble with the fabric, May snatched it away, shoved him to a seat on the ground, ripped away his bloodsoaked sleeve, and got to work.

“You’re nothing if not competitive, aren’t you, Mr. Shelby,” she said, to which the only answer was a pained grunt. Alfie may have made some sort of noise, but again it disappeared partly into his beard and partly into the forest sounds, which seemed to intensify as dusk began to fall. Tommy looked like he could cut steel with his existence, but May wasn’t paying enough attention to his eyes to notice.

“What’s the plan?” she said, once she’d decided the bullet wasn’t coming out without pincers and settled for wrapping his wound up tight. “I assume you have one.”

Alfie scratched at his beard. “We’re out of ammunition, so if they catch us, we’re fucked. Can’t go back to the house.” He gave Tommy a look that he missed as he prodded at May’s makeshift bandage, checking it for flaws. “I agree with the lady, you’ve got contingencies out your arse. Have you got a little hidey hole in these woods somewhere?” Finding the bandage acceptable, Tommy looked up and nodded.

May couldn’t help but blanch. Now that she didn’t have a runaway horse or bloody wound to attend to, her mind finally settled on the fact that someone had just tried to kill her. To be sure, Tommy hadn’t made any pretenses about who he was, but there was a stark difference between inviting a gangster to your warm bedroom and shivering in the woods with a wounded man, a spooked horse, and a no doubt certifiable lunatic—

“Here, mate.” Mr. Solomons shrugged off his long wool coat and placed it around May’s shoulders in a brusque motion. She studied his face for a moment, but found, oddly enough, it didn’t seem to be a suggestion or a claim on her, but a genuinely kind act. Even in the dimming light, May could see Tommy pursing his lips, but she ignored him. “Thank you, Mr. Solomons.”

Tommy got to his feet with a look that was only slightly marred by a blood loss-induced wobble. He had that mix of mulish stubbornness and coltish vulnerability that had, upon occasion, made her stay longer than was necessary, longer than he’d asked for. By way of some apology—although Heaven knew she had absolutely nothing to apologize for—she reached under the coat for a particular suspicious weight and produced a slim silver flask. Repressing a smile of triumph, she handed it over to Tommy.

Tommy took a sip and stopped short. “You said it wasn’t sweet enough.”

Alfie made an indeterminate grumble. “You changed the recipe, though.”

“The recipe’s the same. It’s been the same for generations. It’s a Shelby family recipe.”

May found that she was enjoying herself. “Distilled for the eradication of seemingly incurable sadness,” she added.

“Exactly,” said Tommy.

Alfie harrumphed. He muttered something about fucking pikey bastards and then clapped his beringed hands together. “Right. Where we headed, Shelby? It’s getting fucking dark.”

Tommy took another large swig, then passed the flask back to May and led the bedraggled trio deeper into the woods. May followed, unscrewing the flask and taking a swig as she did. As long as she was breaking the rules, she might as well break them all.

And even if it was still too sweet, it made her feel warm.

After that, they fell silent. It really was getting dark, and Tommy was pushing them at a brisk pace through the woods, evidently intent on reaching their goal before sundown. At first, May thought she saw armed men everywhere, but after she flinched for the third time at a squirrel bounding across the trail, she stopped caring. Bundled up in the big coat, she stumbled once or twice, but after a half-hour, Tommy really seemed to be staggering more than walking, so she took his hand and firmly said nothing about it. Alfie must have noticed, but by some miracle, he too said nothing.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the little cabin. When Tommy’s key opened the lock, they all let out a collective sigh of relief, then went in. Alfie crouched over the fireplace; Tommy made a beeline for the telephone; and May tied her mare up in a post round the back before coming back inside.

“Get Polly...It’s alright, we’re alright.” Tommy was leaning against the wall. He passed his hand over his eyes in a familiar gesture of weariness. “Listen, this line’s probably hit. I was warned in person by someone who didn’t want to use their telephone, all right? So...no, just a nickel for me. That’s all the same. Send a couple of fours to us in the morning. And, ah. Tell Charlie...”

For a moment there was only the crackle of the nascent fire as Alfie coaxed it into existence.

“...You know.” Tommy hung up. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“My turn?” May said, breaking in before he could fall too deep down that particular rabbit hole.

He made a weary motion of acquiescence, then went to sit on the bed, only to find that she had nearly covered it with the supplies she’d found in the cabin. Cans, utensils, an electric torch, and more, all arranged in rows with a neatness he immediately recognized from their first morning after. Upon waking, he’d squinted against the dawning sun to see her, naked, sitting before the mirror and lining up small tins, tubes, flats of rouge, pencils. It was like watching himself as sergeant major, obsessively counting ammunition boxes in anticipation of the morning strafe, knowing perfectly well that there was enough, but not quite believing it. Her hand had been warm and steady on the walk there, and he was used to being around people accustomed to bullets, and so it had slipped his mind that this was entirely new for her. One part of his mind wished they were alone, so he could comfort her, and another part concluded that he was done for. There was no way she’d sell her horse to him now, much less ever allow him into her home.

“It’s perfectly fine,” she was saying. “I’ll simply have to miss our tea tomorrow. But as much as I’m sad to miss seeing you, there’s not much to discuss if he told Ellie that he wouldn’t stop; he’s useless, and has been ever since she got ahold of him. No, Ellie said as much herself. Yes, well. Each to their own. Goodnight, Letitia.”

“A shame about that tea party, eh?” Alfie had finally built a sizable fire in the little hearth. He ambled over to the telephone.

“Not really. Just an informal ladies’ hospital committee meeting. It would have only been a long series of polite whines about how useless our MP is. Cucumber sandwiches aside, I’d rather be here.”

“With half a dozen armed men after you?”

“Why worry about that, when I have you to protect me? With your bulletless gun.”

A wry smile spread wide over Alfie’s face. “I’ve got a fucking knife, you know.”

“And five cans of bully beef,” cut in Tommy.

“My husband always said it was the worst of all possible meats.”

“It’s not bad,” said Tommy.

Alfie made a derisive noise clear through his beard. “It’s fucking shit is what it is,” he said.

They were all tired. They were all tired. “I’ll make the beef,” she said.

“Don’t—don’t. The coq au vin is good. The beans will be all right for breakfast. Look, I’ll do it.” Tommy lumbered to his feet like a man with fifty-pound weights attached to his shoulders.

“You’ve been shot. I’ll do it.”

“Both of you, sit down and have a fucking sleep.” They turned. Alfie stared back mutinously. “Wot. You think I can’t cook? It’s called fucking opening a can, mate. Go to bed.”

Tommy mustered up the last of his command ability and turned it on May. “You take the bed.”

She gave him a demure nod, which was utterly spoiled by Alfie growling, “Oh, come off it.”

May was a millisecond from saying, “What?” when she caught his expression and swallowed it. That seemed about enough nonsense for the night. “Right,” she said instead, making the bed to the best of her limited ability while Tommy bundled up the supplies in the oversized jacket and hauled it over to Alfie.

Once under the covers, she went about taking off as much of her clothes as she reasonably could, then closed her eyes while Tommy and Alfie murmured in the corner about Sabini and cousins and hangings and dogs, things she didn’t know and didn’t want to know, all in a low and rough and comforting cadence, and she was drifting, almost, when Tommy at last climbed into bed. She heard a sort of clacking sound, metal against wood, and opened one eye to see what it was.

A gun, on the windowsill, next to Tommy’s side of the bed.

He slipped under the covers and grunted, trying to find a good spot, a way to lie with minimum pain in his aching arm, the gin wearing off a bit, and she couldn’t stop staring at that gun. Did he always have a gun next to his bed? Was hers the only house where he didn’t have a gun next to his bed? Except that his coat was so often on a chair nearby, or his holster, or—there was one time—

Whatever part of her had been pretending that the events of that afternoon were just a tragic and surprising anomaly promptly gave up. That someone had tried to kill her was bad enough, but that someone had been trying to kill him for the last ten years straight, and would keep trying till they succeeded...She had meant to keep to her own side of the bed, primly, pointedly, but she found herself pressing her face into his shoulder. Presently his hand was in her hair.

She was too tired and trying too hard to be quiet for it to last very long. After a few minutes, she wiped her eyes and yawned into his shirt. A few minutes after that, she was asleep.

Memories fell to pieces like wet paper in the first hour of that night. May remembered the taste of crabapple slices baked in gin; the scrape of a spoon against the ridged side of a tin can; the temperature, not quite right, of boiled water gotten just a little too cold; a real smile from Alfie, for some joke she couldn’t remember, crooked. Tommy remembered tunnels, and pickaxes, and waking, a small hand on the nape of his neck and someone saying, wearily, “It’s not real, it’s not France, it’s a bed. It’s a bed,” and then falling backwards straight back into sleep. Alfie remembered an interminable watching and waiting, squatting by the fire, sips of gin (still not sweet enough), all blended together, cut only once, and sharply, by a look from Lady Carleton that cut him to his core.

It had been somewhat after the nightmare, and he had been watching her lull Tommy back to sleep with steady drifts of her hand across his forehead, when she glanced up at him. Up until then he had not realized he had really been tired. It all seemed to pale in comparison to Tommy, shot, and Lady Carleton, shot at for probably the first time in her life. But he had been tired, and it had made a difference, had made him weak. As he watched them, he felt longing pierce him from every direction.

“You must want to sleep,” she said, abominably softly. Her politeness tried to mask it, but there was pity.

He bolted to his feet. “I’m going to have a smoke.” And he was out the door. The cold air was memorable. The taste of the cigarette was memorable. And when he got back in, the gold of the fireplace blended everything together till he found himself cold, back sore, having fallen asleep sitting against the wall.

“Mr. Solomons, Mr. Solomons.” May was whispering to him. “I heard something.”

“It’s probably just—” No, there were definitely a pair of green eyes that peeked at him through the window, moving fast, darting so that he got absolutely no idea of the face, except that it was mildly pale and the person was crouching. “Fuck.”

May shook Tommy awake while Alfie took electric torch and knife in hand and silently blessed the Shelbys for being such paranoid bastards that even their worst cabin had two doors. With a hand signal to Tommy, he crept out the back and disappeared into the night.

May let herself be shoved under the bed, watching Tommy cover the front door from slightly behind the bed frame. She thought, numbly, that gangsters weren’t supposed to be shot at while blinking sleepily, in their underwear, crouching on the dusty floor of an old cabin. It hardly seemed fair.

From the darkness outside the window, she heard Alfie growl, “If you. Move. I will cut. Your fuckin. ‘ead off.”

And then a scream and outright bawling.

Before Tommy could stop her, May had darted through the front door and squinted out into the night, where Alfie lit up with his electric torch two children, one quite small and one no older than fourteen. “Oh, darling,” she said, squatting down a bit to get to eye level, at which the smaller child hurled himself at her, covered the distance in two seconds, and buried his wet little face in her neck, still crying. The older child, a girl, shifted from foot to foot and looked a half and half of guilty and defiant. She was also clearly embarrassed, and using the time-old teenage tactic of turning it into annoyance.

“Fucking hell,” said Alfie, throwing down his knife. Tommy rubbed his eyes with his free hand and tried to figure out if he was dreaming.

“What’s the matter, hm? What’s the matter, dear,” said May, although clearly the matter was being threatened by a bearlike man with a massive hunting knife at three in the morning.

“I’m Greta, that’s Pietro. We just wanted to see,” said the girl, who was admirably successful in her stubborn not-crying face. “Patty said that she saw the old cabin was lit up. And inside, Tommy Shelby was holed up with stew. And he had ‘is arm shot off from a fight. And he was fuckin’ the Princess. And a Jew.”

The trio absorbed that for a second.

“Her Royal Highness is considerably taller than me,” said May.

“My arm’s still here,” said Tommy.

“You got me,” said Alfie. “I’m a feckin Jew, all right.”

That last piece of humor didn’t seem to go over well. The girl was still looking at them all suspiciously.

“But no fucking,” added Tommy.

The little boy peeled himself away from May just enough to say, in a voice that would melt a heart of stone, “You mus’ think we’re really stupid.”

“No. No! I don’t think you’re stupid, dear,” she said.

“He’s eight and can’t read,” said Greta. Alfie made a suppressed sound rather too like a chuckle.

“Well, perhaps the educational system could use a little work, but that’s not your fault. And you know what? It’s never too late to start learning.” By dint of nothing but an extremely cheerful tone, she finally got a smile out of Pietro.

After ten minutes, the children’s story came together easily. Johnny Dogs and several of his kin were allowed to camp on Tommy’s estate, but after some venturing into the neighboring woods, they found it pleasanter than the open fields of the estate, so they pitched camp where it was technically illegal but close enough to the estate to plead a mistake in the case of getting caught. One young roamer, Patty, had actually caught a glimpse of them stumbling through the forest, and tailed them till they got to the cabin, whereupon he had gone home straightaway with the tale so tall nobody believed it except his younger siblings, who ventured out in the dead of night to vindicate Patty and provide a much-needed flavor of adventure to their lives. After a few more hugs, reassurances, and one or two fabricated stories for them to take back to their friends, they were sent off with the electric torch and a couple crabapples.

“Tell Aunt Esme we send our best wishes!” Tommy called after them.

“And tell your friends that Jews behead invaders, right?”

Tommy and May turned in tandem.

“Wot?” said Alfie. “It’s like you said: ‘s never too late to start learning.”

May made a noise of pure incredulousness. “Learning the alphabet.”

“Or learning to leave my people the fuck alone. Eh?”

Tommy made a gesture of exasperation. “It’s not the Romani you need to be afraid of.”

“Who said anything about afraid?” But it was good-natured, and they were piling back into the cabin now. Tommy poked at the fire, May tried to brush the dust off her hair, and Alfie checked the flask. “Fuck, we’re out of gin.”

“It’s—” May reached into Tommy’s waistcoat and looked at his pocket watch. “Four in the morning.”

“And we’re out of gin.”

May rolled her eyes. Once her governess had told her that that was common, but she was sure that sleeping in a cabin with two men after getting fucking shot at was certainly worse. She reached up to her garter and pulled out her own flask, warmed through its proximity to her thigh. After her slip revealed more than a flash of skin, Alfie averted his eyes. Tommy’s eerie eyes caught her own as he broke into a rare smile.

“Not quite as good as Mr. Shelby’s, I’m afraid,” May murmured. That being said, she took a gulp big enough to leave her cheeks flushed again before passing it to Alfie.

He swirled and sniffed it. “And why does a lady like yourself have a flask on her person, eh?”

“Dealing with Mr. Shelby can be...stressful, even without the gunshots.”

Alfie maybe quirked a smile under that impenetrable beard of his. He pointed a finger at her. “You are not wrong, mate.” (Tommy looked put upon, but when didn’t he?)

May smiled. “You should get some sleep Mr. Solomons.”

“Call me Alfie, yeah? Anyone who gives me gin can call me Alfie.” And he would have let her call him anything as long as she kept smiling at him like that. Maybe it was the gin warming his throat or the grey pre-dawn light, but she looked fucking mystical, all pale skin and long legs and posh accent. Definitely a gentile, but G-d was certainly involved in her creation. He almost envied that poor shot Peaky bastard for getting to sleep with her curled into him, but at the same time, he wasn’t opposed to sleeping next to Tommy either—

“Alfie.” Not May’s posh accent, but Tommy’s gravelly Brummie one. “Get some rest. I’ll keep watch.”

“We’ve got a bit of an issue there, mate. Can’t go to sleep without a story. Or a fuck, but I can’t really see you providing that.” (Well, he could. But for the sake of propriety he’d take the story.)

All of May’s etiquette training must have lain abandoned somewhere in the woods with Alfie’s hat, because she laughed out loud. Tommy squinted at Alfie as he flopped down onto the straw mattress without taking off his boots. He waved a hand at Tommy. “Go on, mate.” Tommy fixed him with that icy stare that said very clearly I have a gun and I am not afraid to use it.

“Once upon a time there was a man from Birmingham that murdered a London gangster in the woods because he asked for a bedtime story. The fucking end.” Alfie rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow.

“Not the best I’ve had. These woods are too fucking quiet and too fucking dark. How you lot do it out in the country I’ve no fucking idea.” May looked up from her spot on the floor. She had put Alfie’s coat back on, to cover herself from the drafts that snuck through cracks in the walls, but also because it smelled..reassuring. Like tobacco and woodsmoke and some other smell that must have just been Alfie. The proximity of his arrival to the shots and his general manner had unnerved her at first, but he was growing on her. Slowly.

“Are you comfortable down there, Princess?” Her dark eyes snapped up and met his blue-grey ones. He reached over and patted the mattress.

“No funny business, I swear. He’d have my balls if I did—” He gestured towards Tommy. “And you’re a gentile anyway.”

The floor was awfully hard, and Tommy was there, smoking a cigarette and staring out the window, mind on some complicated scheme or maybe in the dirt in France somewhere ten years ago. She’d be a fool to trust a gangster, but that’s how she had gotten into this mess in the first place. May stood up, stretching her bare legs. She sat primly on the corner of the bed as Alfie settled under the rough wool blanket.

“Talk about horses or summat,” he said. “Recite Tennyson. Give me the names of all the king’s great-aunts. Please.”

“You’ve already admitted you don’t care for horses, and now I’ll admit I don’t care for genealogy. Which leaves us literature.” She sat a moment just running her fingers along the wooden footboard. “There are, I admit, at least two things that make me think of you. One of them Shakespeare.”

He gave her a look at once doubtful and indulgent. “Shakespeare?”

“Shakespeare,” she said firmly. “But both the things I’m thinking of end tragically. Sad endings don’t put people to sleep. If they could, Tommy’s would’ve had you snoring by now.”

Tommy elected to ignore that.

Alfie shifted and smiled. Maybe. “What’s the other one, then?”

May leaned against the rough wall of the cabin at Alfie’s feet and began to recite: “The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor—”

Tommy made a soft noise from his position by the window. “That’s all we are, eh? Fuckin highwaymen.”

May looked at him imperiously as she continued her recitation softly.

By the fourth stanza, Alfie was snoring, his arm tossed over his eyes. May stopped and gently reached toward the ground where her skirt lay, but couldn’t quite reach it without brushing up against Alfie’s thighs. Tommy strode forward and passed it to her. Once she had removed a pack of cigarettes from the miles of expensive fabric now torn and muddy from the haphazard dash through the woods, he also lit her cigarette, the flickering flame illuminating her cheekbones.

She handed him a cigarette, and the two smoked in silence, she still tucked away at the foot of the bed and he half-perched on the footboard.

Even in sleep, Alfie could not rest easy. He seemed caught in a long rhythm of snores that lulled the both of them into a reverie, which he then rudely interrupted with a surprised snort. May laughed outright, and Tommy chuckled. It didn’t seem to bother Alfie at all; he gave a disgruntled mumble, and then went straight back to snoring. Sleep made everything different. The beard half a day ago had been impressive, and now it was a little overgrown, wild. His big hand round the handle of the knife had been menacing, but open on the covers it just looked lonely. And despite all that, you couldn’t look at him and forget that he’d tear you apart easily.

“I can see why you like him,” she said, passing Tommy another cigarette.

He scoffed, but took the cigarette. “He’s not a baker, May.”

“No?” She mocked him.

He pulled that just-barely-tolerating-existence face. “No. He’s a gangster.”

“That must mean you’re not. Real gangsters don’t call themselves gangsters. Only the papers and girls in a flutter use that word. Real gangsters call themselves extremely elegant names, like...Peaky Blinders.”

May burst out laughing, and he laughed too. The gin warmed his chest in its descent. “You can’t blame me for that, it’s Arthur’s fault.”

“It’s always Arthur’s fault, is it?”

“No, it’s never really Arthur’s fault.”

“Anyways,” she said, “Gangsters and liking are not mutually exclusive, as I believe has been proved.”

“Is that what you think we’ve proved? You don’t think we’ve proved the opposite?”

“I suppose it’s all a matter of taste.” For no apparent reason, Alfie made a couple kicks at the covers and turned over entirely, throwing them off. May, not keen on being jabbed in the leg again, threw the covers back over him and joined Tommy on the footboard. “He’s rather like a big dog, you know.”

“And what am I like?”

“A horse.”

He exhaled. “Too old and green to train, is that it?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Rather than the snore-mumble-snort pattern she and Tommy had gotten used to, Alfie began to twitch and moan underneath the covers. His breathing got raspier as though he was trying to suck air through a straw. He curled into himself, muttering orders under his breath as his visible hand clawed at the blankets. “Cohen I said get down! Get down!” Sweat beaded on his brow as he shot up, eyes wild, hand already reaching for his knife. May ignored Tommy’s warning hand on her shoulder as she reached for him. She could feel Tommy tense behind her but she couldn’t leave him like this.

“Alfie, Alfie, it’s alright. You’re alright.” He was panting like a bull, nostrils flared and eyes assessing the room like the soldier he had been. Was. She knelt by the bedside, cool hands stroking his hair, murmuring gentle platitudes as he came back to himself.

Still shuddering, he looked round wildly. For a second, due to dead chance, he and Tommy locked eyes. Tommy, looking like he’d been shot a second time, turned as quick as a blink, heart pounding like Thoroughbred’s mid-race. He fumbled with the cigarette case. “Fuck.” He tossed the whole thing over his shoulder. “Have a fucking cigarette,” he heard May say firmly, and then the unmistakable flick of a lighter. An exhale.

Head in his hands, Tommy allowed himself a moment and a moment only for irrational resentment. Of Germans, perhaps, and sleeping, or of Alfie and looking around, or of May and what women’s hands were allowed to do, what women’s voices were allowed to say.

“Wot is this, a fuckin Scandinavian fishhouse? Are you trying to smoke me alive?” And Alfie was back.

Tommy turned round. “Drinking is your vice, Alfie; smoking is mine.”

“Now that sounds like a fucking lie.”

“You both do both, and much more besides. Now.” And within a few minutes, May had all the cigarettes stubbed out, a half-tin of water poured down Alfie’s throat, the covers up to his chin, and the fire stoked just as it was about to turn to embers.

She balanced on the headboard now, both feet on the mattress and one reassuring hand on Alfie’s shoulder, watching Tommy smoke more than she’d seen any man smoke in her life. (Except, perhaps, Uncle George. But he’d died young too, so that was no comfort.) Tommy seemed to be quite resolutely not looking at her, and the air was thicker than ever. In her defense, she wanted to say, she had dealt with it all with as maternal an air as she could muster, partly out of respect to the men’s dignity and partly out of fear for herself, but now that it was over she had to allow for the possibility that Alfie, aside from being a terror, was also a mortal man. And something adjacent to handsome.

“As likely as not, we should both be put down,” Tommy said.

“Over my dead body,” she said, and again it was not firm enough, not maternal enough, not light enough. She tried again. “I’d never allow it in my stables.”

“Never?”

“The difference is, you’ve got another forty years on you and that horse had all of four days.”

He let enough silence fill the bed to make her think he was done with it, and then he said: “You did it yourself?”

She lifted her shoulders a little. “Who would I ask to do such a thing?”

May knew Tommy found her attractive, or at least, attractive enough to fuck. But this was a moment where she felt his genuine respect, ungarnished by seduction or business. As he gazed levelly at her, she stroked Alfie’s rough shirt with her thumb. A far cry from her husband’s smooth cotton or Tommy’s stiff shirts, the muslin provided a reassuring texture against her fingers. Hypothetically, the gesture could be an unconscious one, a soothing habit. But May had never felt less aware of the smallest motion, except for twice in her life. Once, when she had brushed William Turner’s hand as they promenaded through the park together when she was sixteen and when she had felt Tommy Shelby’s icy eyes on her as she moved through the horse auction. Fuck. What was it with her and gangsters?

He had her, he was sure of it. But for just a moment, he almost didn’t want to. Feet tucked under the corner of the blanket, thumb back and forth on Alfie’s shoulder, body gone deceptively relaxed, she looked at home, like he imagined she would be with a husband, save for the intensity in her eyes. But then, as she had so well reminded him a long time ago, behaving like a gentleman neither suited him nor pleased her.

He pushed off the footboard and walked slowly round the bed, passing her what remained of her cigarettes as he went. Leaning at last next to the window, he watched her dark hair lit to copper at the edges by the fire behind it, and after a moment, said, “You could ask me. If you have a horse needs shooting.”

“What, you’re going to drive all the way from your estate to mine just to shoot a single bullet?” But she was touched. She stubbed out her cigarette and put away the case with an air of finality, then turned to him. “Come here.”

She reached for his face and wiped away some dried blood that had somehow migrated to his cheekbone. As she shifted toward Tommy, she braced herself on Alfie’s shoulder. The change in weight snapped Alfie out of his stupor and he ran a hand through his beard. “Right. Got more of that gin there, princess?”

May blinked. “Of course. Are you alright?”

Alfie huffed and muttered something utterly unintelligible before finishing the flask. Tommy had moved away, and May ran her outstretched hair through her hair, picking out a few briars that had embedded themselves.

“We should discuss tomorrow,” she said, in the same cool voice she used when discussing dinner parties and not fleeing from bloodthirsty Italians. Before tonight, her only experience with Italy had been a heavenly month in a country villa where they had been making wine for generations and the food had irrevocably changed her palate away from the boiled dishes that Cook had raised her on.

Tommy nodded. The opportunity was clearly gone, but the feeling was not. If all worked out, this unexpected trip would give him the one thing he wanted but couldn’t buy. It made him feel settled, somehow. Or maybe that was the gin and blood loss.

“There’ll be two horses tied to the post by sunrise,” he said. “We’ll take them, make our way down to the coast; should be half a day. Noon you’ll both sail. May, you’ll come with me, back down the canals. I can put you up in a hotel under watch, just until we can end this, and find out how much they know about you. Alfie, you’ll go back to London. I expect you’ll have a bit of a strafe with Daniels, and that’s understandable, given his loss. Tell him we’ll increase his share by 10%, as a token of our respect. You can take half of that out of mine, half out of yours.”

Alfie got a gleam in his eye.

“And,” Tommy added, “I’ll facilitate the meeting between Wick and your boy. That’s twenty, easy.”

They stared at each other. Alfie still had that gleam in his eye, but Tommy didn’t look ready to budge, either.

“Tea?” said May.

“No,” they said, in tandem.

“Well, drink it anyway, you can’t turn gin into more blood,” she said, pressing a camp tin into Tommy’s hand and forcing him to look down.

Alfie flashed a grin while he wasn’t looking. “Deal.”

May paused and cleared her throat. “Your son...will he be alright?” She could still feel the child from earlier pressed against her neck. She was grateful she hadn’t had a child with Ian, as he had always felt that children shouldn’t be brought into a world that so willfully massacred its sons and daughters, but sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder. Tommy tensed, clearly prepared to argue, but then seemed to force himself into a calm.

“Yes. He’s safe.” Tommy looked out the window, then his watch. “We have about an hour before it’s bright enough to navigate.”

May sipped her tea, which was unsweetened and tasted faintly metallic. She would be damned if she let either man see her grimace, though. Alfie stretched in a faintly feline manner, then leapt off the bed energetically enough that you could almost forget he’d been in the throes of an attack in the last hour. “Well then. How shall we occupy ourselves, eh? “

She stared at him. “It’s dark out yet and you’ve had all of two hours in bed. Couldn’t you sleep?”

“Yeah, well. I don’t need much sleep. Always been like that, ever since I was a kid.”

Except, she didn’t say, there really were the beginnings of dark thumbprints under his eyes.

“I need as much as I can get,” she said, bundling herself into bed and propping her chin up on one fist. “It’s your turn now. Tell me a bedtime story.”

Alfie broke into a real smile at that, and May was glad for the dim light because she felt blood rush to her cheeks.

“Well. I dunno much Shakespeare, or any poems. But when I was a lad, my favorite was Tom Tit Tot.” As he retold the story, his arms moved in exaggerated motions, though her guess was that he had heard the story with less ‘fucking cunts’ thrown in. Though with London, who knew. By the time the cunning princess had guessed the creature’s name, May had fallen asleep, curled up under the wool blanket.

It was fairly obvious, though she had kept that posh upper lip stiff, that she was far out of her usual world of teas and horses. Even if she had fucked Shelby, a bit of rough didn’t prepare any Lady for the underworld. Especially the real parts of shitty tea and not enough gin, and itchy tired eyes from screaming nightmares where you woke up convinced you were covered in blood. He watched her sleep for a minute or two before turning to Tommy.

“Right then. Just you and me, yeah? Fuckin cozy, ain’t it.”

“If that’s what you call two gangsters out in the woods.” Tommy chuckled before continuing to examine his arm, gently prodding the bloody scarf.

  
“So then. Why have you got a member of the fuckin gentry following you about? And don’t say horses. I might’ve been London bred but I remember the stable hands and fucking none of them,” he said, pointing at Tommy, “None of ‘em looked like her.”

“She could race the Derby if they’d let her.” Tommy’s voice was deceptively mild. “Could turn a good coin if she ever showed to a Romani wedding.”

“She’s never going to one of your weddings, mate.”

There was nothing to say to that that could be said. Tommy wanted another smoke, but that was something else that couldn’t turn to blood, so instead he sat at the foot of the bed, as May had done before, and got to cleaning his gun with a little stiff brush he produced from inside his waistcoat.

“Is that why you chose her?”

“What?”

“It’s not that fuckin difficult to work it all out, right? You ‘ad a wife—”

Holding eye contact, Tommy slid the piece back in with a distinct click.

“—that’s all I’m sayin’ about her, that you had a wife—and now you don’t. You think you don’t want another. But you’re Tommy fucking Shelby. Must be difficult, innit, all these women, all the time. Lookin’ at you. And you can’t say nothing to nobody, right, because you can’t even trust your own family, so you’re out here with all these women, talking to be misunderstood. You know how people shake hands, yeah? That’s talking. You in your big-boy club—fucking stupid club, by the way, Tommy, what the ‘ell are you doing in a place with fucking members of Parliament—talking and talking to all these professional women. Talking, fucking, what’s the fucking difference? And you’re doing all of it because you can’t say a word. Not one real fucking word. Not even to your own son.”

“Is that what it is, Alfie.”

“That’s what it is, mate. Talking to be misunderstood.”

“And how is Lady Carleton supposed to fit into all this?”

Alfie shrugged. “Aw, she can ride, right? An’ she’s not bad to look at, sure. Sure, you like pretty things.”

“Come on, Alfie. You’ve come this far. Why not finish it off?” He made a gesture with the gun-holding hand, Alfie pulled a face, and he slapped it down on the windowsill so hard it rattled. “Eh?”

Alfie leaned back against the wall, cold floor hard on his arse and hot fire steaming his shirt, taking his time, eyes gone, for a second, dark.

“With any other person,” Alfie said, “There’d be too much danger they’d actually stay.”

Demonstrating a remarkably prescient sense of timing, one that had single-handedly saved more parties than she could count, May stretched in her sleep, yawned, then resettled with her feet pressed firmly against Tommy’s legs and her hand only a fingertip away from Alfie’s back. Her gentle snores continued as the men fell into silence.

Alfie checked his pocket watch. “Mate, we’ve gotta get going.”

Tommy turned away. “May. May.”

Burrowing her head further into the divot between her arms, May remained asleep. Well, not quite. But frankly, her body ached down to her bones and her mouth was dry and she rather preferred to ignore these facts and drift off once again.

“I’ll wake on my own this morning, Mary. Could you send up breakfast, please?”

“Right,” said Alfie. And abruptly, the warm, if itchy, blanket was swept away from her. This was enough of an injustice to prompt her rolling over and sitting up, only to be greeted with a Jewish gangster instead of Mary’s scrubbed face. Her head ached. Fuck. “Rise and shine then, eh?” She snatched back the covers.

“I’ll need to get dressed.” Thank God she hadn’t worn a corset, although part of her would have loved to see the hardened criminals fumble their way through the loops and laces.

Alfie strode out the door quickly enough, but it had taken Tommy a moment to get the hint. Getting dressed before someone was almost more intimate than getting undressed, and she had always let him sneak away early enough that he didn’t witness her pulling up her stockings. (Maybe part of her still associated that kind of domesticity with Ian. He had always buttoned her up in a caring gesture that left her warm in a way the sex never quite did.) After finally lacing up her boots and smoothing out the blanket, she strode out into the dawn to meet the pair at the edge of the woods.

Despite everything, she found herself a little sad to see and end to the the long strange night with these two strange men.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We wrote this initially as an RP but then found it too delicious not to publish, meaning there's a shit ton of plot, but no cohesive arc and no plan for a specific ending. That being said, Chapter 2 is on its way.
> 
> Let us know what you think!


	2. “Little birdie told me you’re in the ‘abit of pining after gangsters.”

Outside, Alfie stood between two horses; a new spotted mare and May’s own bay, who stood huffing and twitching their ears in the soft morning fog. Having saddled them, Alfie was saying hello, murmuring under his breath what could have been English and could have been something else, running his hands along their arched necks. The bay snorted and stomped on seeing May, as if to say: not exactly a Derby-winner’s stall.

And over to the side a little sat Tommy on a grey gelding, looking out across the great green sweep of trees, distinctly not talking.

Something had happened.

“No beans for breakfast?” she said.

Alfie thumped the big brown saddlebags at the flank of the spotted mare. “Some dried meat and whatnot,” he said. “Gypsy cornbread. No gin, though. You can ‘ave it on the way. Someone’s in a big fucking hurry to be off.”

They looked at Tommy, who did not look back, and again May found herself nearly reverting to childish habits and rolling her eyes. “Then let’s be off.”

Alfie stooped a little and offered her a step of his cupped hands. With an appreciative smile, she vaulted up into the saddle, looking like she landed lightly for all that it was such a height. She left the reins slack across the horse’s neck, and with a cluck and a gentle nudge, steered it towards Tommy. As soon as her horse drew level with his, he started down the trail, leaving Alfie to grumble, launch himself into the saddle, and trot off after them.

Penetrating the tangle of webs stretching between the two men was impossible, she knew, but at the very least she wanted to know more about who it was that had tried to kill her. The thing about gangsters was that they were by their very definition uninterested in casualties, and she had no intention of becoming one. Whatever streak of sentimentality that ran through a dangerous man was not enough to be called protection, and for what time they had left together, she meant to learn how to take care of herself in this new arena.

With a nudge of her heels, she urged her horse forward, and it sidled up beside Alfie’s. “So tell me about bread.”

“You take the flour, see, and you put it in these massive vats with water and yeast and stuff, right? And you mix it, and you mix it, and--”

“I know how to make bread.” (She did not, and had never made it herself, but.) “I only meant to ask you what you find so interesting about it. You have dedicated your life to bread. There must be something.”

“Ah, you on your fancy fucking racehorse, your huge fucking pearls and your massive fucking estate. You didn’t think for one minute that little old me just needed the money? Eh? Just woke up hungry and I had to make some fucking bread?”

“No.”

He chuckled. “It’s a competitive business, right? It’s a family business. I love my family, and I love the work, and I love fucking…” His eyes shone. “The competition.”

“You’re a busier man than even I expected.”

“Wot?”

“There’s quite a lot of bakeries in London. Plenty of competition to be fucking, one assumes.”

He roared with laughter. “You don’t even know the fucking half of it, mate. You don’t even fucking know.”

After a few minutes, the riders focused on their horses and in the soothing rhythm of galloping across vacant fields. At least, May and Tommy did. Alfie was audibly having a difficult time if his constant stream of expletives was any indicator. Leading the group because of course he was, Tommy glanced back at Alfie then coaxed his horse to a stop. “Have you ridden a horse before, Alfie?”

“Course I have. What kind of bloody question is that? I was in the fuckin army, eh?”

Tommy shared a look with May who had halted her horse behind Alfie’s. She bit her lip.

“Maybe try being a bit more gentle with the reins? You really don’t need to snap them.”

“Well fuckin pardon me for not bein raised on a fucking estate or a goddamn caravan and my mum wasn’t a fuckin unicorn or the queen but in London we use our fucking feet, yeah?” He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “Dunno how you lot keep this up. My fuckin prick feels like it’s going to fall off. Is that what happened with you Tommy? Did you have to give up your cock to ride a horse every fuckin minute or is that just hearsay? Princess, what are your thoughts? Are all those fuckin jockeys secretly eunuchs?”

“Maybe we should rest a moment,” she said.

“No, we’re almost there,” said Tommy, breaking silence for the first time in an hour.

May’s voice took on a certain tone. “I thought you said the ride would take the better part of a day.”

“Your horse is not going to take well to the sea. We’ll drop her off and the Lee boys will get her back to your stables safe and sound in time for training day after tomorrow.”

Alfie mumbled something, but when May looked over, he didn't have that gleam in his eye. Apparently whatever complaints he had about being stared at by a horde of small curious children was subsumed under his more immediate complaints against riding.

By the time they reached the Lee camp, the sun had driven away the fog and woken them all up properly; Tommy seemed less chilly, May her usual, more proper self, and Alfie—well, Alfie was always himself, though now just a touch less full of meaningful but wordless grumbles.

“Tommy!” Johnny Dogs’ cheerful voice rang out against the bright caravans. May didn’t mean to gawk, but this was new. A group of boys crouched around a flagging campfire which had a kettle propped over it and a gaggle of children raced through the gaps in the scattered tents and carriages.

“Alright, Johnny? Where is everyone?”

“Oh, another wedding last night. Matilda and Frankie. Is this the beast?” Assuming that was her cue, May smoothly dismounted. A few curious heads began to poke out of doors and windows, and out of the cluster of children, one broke away.

“Look! I told you I met the Princess!”

May smiled and bent down to receive a very exuberant hug. “Hello Pietro!”

Still clinging to her, the little boy turned to another underfed youth. “I told you, Danny and you never listen but Greta and me—”

Danny, presumably, wrinkled his nose. “That’s not the princess! She’s all dirty! And why would a princess come here?”

Before she could explain once again that she was not, in fact, a resident of Buckingham Palace, another man emerged from a caravan.

“Hello, Tommy! How’s our Esme, eh?” Tommy was soon enveloped in a whirl of back-clapping and talk that bounced from weddings to shipping to how best deliver a breech foal. The children gathered around Tommy looking at him like he’d hung the moon. Alfie, for once in his life, was silent, although judging from how gingerly he shifted on the saddle his attention was otherwise occupied.

“Alright, alright. We just came through to drop off the horse.” Johnny acquiesced, but not before forcing a bottle of whiskey on Tommy, “Because you missed the wedding,” and subjecting him to another round of hugs. May strode up to the horse Alfie uncomfortably rested on.

“Off. Please.”

“Scuse me?”

“Not to offend your pride, but I think it’s fairly obvious that I can control a horse more easily. If I can guide him, it’ll be much more comfortable for you.” After a dramatic, and in her opinion, unnecessarily loud groan from him, May was seated where she was best, and the barrel chested gangster got on once more behind her. Tommy smoothly mounted his horse and in a moment, they were off again across the fields.

“What do you think of your peasant subjects, Princess?” Tommy had, after so many rounds of hugs and buffets from friendly slaps and tugs on his coat from curious small children, defrosted considerably. May was careful to make no indication that she noticed.

“Far preferable to my noblemen subjects.” At a look: “Nobles in general. I’ve no quarrel with any particular nobleman, just...the lot of them.”

Alfie squinted. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re any different?”

“No.” She gave him a slanted smile. “Although, if I may say so, I don’t think Lady Coteswold is riding doubled with a baker on a draft horse, getting cornbread crumbs on her coat.”

“Well, that’s just Tommy, innit.”

“No. Not entirely. He didn’t kidnap me, after all.” She gave Tommy a slight smile. “Though he did come close, one time.”

Tommy’s eyes dipped in acknowledgement.

“That sounds like a story,” said Alfie.

“You’ve already had two. Don’t be greedy.” Less than impressed with the slightly stale cornbread, especially after eating ravenously the night before, she held up the half-eaten piece and Alfie took it from over her shoulder. Oh well, she thought. Crumbs on front, might as well have crumbs on the back.

“I liked them a lot, Tommy,” said May, drawing her horse level with his. “And they didn’t give me the silent treatment, as I’ve come to expect from your people.”

“Well, it’s different when you’re ‘dirty’. And you’re better with children.”

“Everyone’s better with children. You could be, if you tried. The way they look at you…”

“Can’t talk to them.”

“Why not?”

“They want to ‘ear stories.”

“And why can’t you just tell them stories?”

“If I tell them the stories they want to hear, they’ll try to leave that fucking forest and come join me in the city. If I tell them the stories they don’t want to hear, come next wedding-day I’ll have ninety women on my arse for giving ‘em nightmares.”

“Can’t you simply tell them to wait until they’re older?”

“He’ll take their money on rigged ‘orses, sell ‘em fake jewels, and get their dads killed, but he won’t tell ‘em a fucking story: Tommy Shelby, ladies and gentlemen.” Alfie had run out of cornbread.

“Never sold a fake,” said Tommy.

“Any man that sells a dozen worthless tanks has sold at least one glass diamond.”

May: “Tanks?”

Tommy: “I haven’t.”

Alfie snorted. “You’re going at it the wrong way anyway, mate. You should be telling them all your stories, the good and the bad. Some of ‘em will come to you anyway. That’s their fucking choice, innit? You let them make their choice, you’ll find out who the best ones are, and the rest of them will sleep safe in their little beds because the family stays strong. That’s how it’s supposed to be, mate. None of this fucking ‘stay in the forest’ bullshit. None of ‘em stay in the forest forever, and there’s guns in the fucking forest anyway.”

“And how did you make your choice, Alfie?” said May. Behind her ear she could feel a what could be a sigh and what could be just the wind whipping her hair.

“What choice, eh? I’m a baker. People need their bread. It’s in the Bible, ain’t it? Give us our daily bread.” He shifted behind her. Initially, he’d been reluctant to get close, but after the stallion had passed a trot it was that or be thrown.

Beyond the crumb issue, it was nice, she thought. Tommy was hardly one to cuddle, and although a muddy field was a far cry from her goose down comforter, it was nice to feel a warm body near hers.

“What about you, princess? Got any little lords or ladies roaming your estate?”

“I don’t think that’s quite how it works. And besides, Johnny Dogs is taking the closest thing I have to a child back to my stables at the moment.”

Alfie tsked. “That’s a shame, that is.”

“Why? So I can send some of them out to shoot someone else’s children?” She meant it to be sharp, but it came out wistful. Technically, it wasn’t too late, but the thought of remarriage, of rearranging her life and putting her horses aside and being expected in bed every night at nine made her chest feel tight. That being said, sometimes she woke up and wanted to feel tiny arms reaching for hers. Sometimes her imagined child was a girl named Charlotte with a penchant for tea parties, or a Robert who returned from the woods with pockets full of rocks and feathers to show off. Sometimes Charlotte had startlingly blue eyes.

“You both know that there’s books, and toys, and governesses? There’s mothers and fathers that don’t send their children off to war?”

“Who doesn’t send their children off to war?”

“Your people.”

She looked fixedly at the pommel of her saddle a moment. “I think it’s been quite clearly demonstrated that my people do, in fact, send their children off to war.”

Oh. No, Alfie hadn’t known, but it seemed obvious now. He wasn’t one for apologies, though. “Yours was an exception,” was all he said.

“You’d rather have your child like Reggie Meriwether, then? Thirty-two, hands white and soft as a tablecloth, and every day he has to hear his driver say, “Good morning, sir,” knowing that his driver is and always will be ten times the man he is? You want to raise a coward?”

Alfie tried to turn this to a triumph. “This is exactly what I was telling you, Tommy.”

“No. No,” said May. “Not you, either. Your idea is to tell them “all the stories” and what, let them become gangsters at the age of seven? Let your child play with guns? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? You couldn’t actually do that if you were paid ten thousand pounds a day to do it. You just say it because you like the way it sounds. Forcing it faster, like you, or pretending it doesn’t exist, like you—” She looked at Tommy. “—doesn’t matter. It’s rubbish either way.”

“So we’ll all have no children and the human race will die out on the face of the Earth,” said Tommy. He was drinking again.

“It’s better than agreeing to a game we all know we’ll lose, just because everyone else is doing it. Going off the cliff like lemmings, one after the other. Watching everyone who came before us fall, and stepping forward anyways.” She paused. “Use a fucking rubber.”

“Jesus, you lot are depressing,” rumbled Alfie. “I thought it was just Tommy, but you’re all like this aren’t you? Maybe it’s because you ride fackin horses everywhere. I’d be grumpy too if my fuckin legs ached like this all the time.”

May dismissively waved her hand backwards. “You get used to it.”

“Anyway, I don’t see anything wrong with a little nipper or two. Raise ‘em up in the faith, pass the business on. Solomons and sons, all that shit. Course, I’d need to meet a nice girl first. Harder than it looks, that. There was this girl, Rachel, but it turned out—” he paused to swig some whiskey, “—turned out she’d rather be wiv women too. Now that is a decision I can respect. Even though, no offense Princess, women are fucking crazy. My mate Ollie had this bird and she was walking by a pub when some fuckers grabbed her with bad intentions, right? Obviously not Jews. Well apparently, he’d given her a knife, and she managed to cut a man’s cock right off.”

“Sounds like they rather deserved it,” muttered May.

“So,” Tommy said, “When you told my boys to stay away from Jewish women, it seems that was for their own protection.”

“Exactly. Sometimes it’s hard to know when a fellow has bad intentions. And your boys always look like they do. Is that why you make ‘em cut their hair so ugly? To warn all the women?”

“It’s for the lice.”

Alfie burst out laughing. “Do you see this man, Lady Carleton? Do you? He could buy thirty of your horses and sleep sound at night, but he’s still tellin’ his barber to give him the ugliest haircut he’s ever had in his life, every week, because once upon a time, he was in the army and he didn’t want to get lice. And thus, a whole generation of tiny Blinders is cursed. Jesus. He’s fucking funny, you know that?”

“It has come to my attention,” said May dryly. “Although you appear to be sporting a full forest on your face, so I’m not entirely sure I’d have him come to you for advice.”

“Now that’s on purpose. Beauty wouldn’t be able to stand it if she saw a hairless Beast, would she?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“I’m not fucking shaving. I’ve been growing this shit for years. Sides, it’s against the faith, ain’t it?”

“All right. We’ve been riding long enough. The horses need water.” Tommy broke into the conversation.

“And I need a piss,” Alfie declared.

Now that he mentioned it, it had been a while since May had used the restroom. And she’d had an awful lot of gin. But no doubt they were miles from any outhouse let alone actual toilet. Blast. How did those Romani women do it? The horses settled themselves along the stream and drank. Alfie positioned himself before a tree because men could just do whatever they wanted.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” May stepped off the horse and strode into the woods. After doing what needed to be done, she walked back to where the men were.

“Can she be trusted?” she heard Alfie say. At this, she paused where she stood. It was rude to eavesdrop, certainly. But it was also rude to discuss people not present, so she felt well within her rights to listen as Alfie went on. “Cause, listen mate, I don’t want to read nothin in the papers next week ‘I spent the night wiv two gangsters and one of them had a tiny cock’—that’s you by the way—kinda shit. Or worse, if the coppers get involved that majorly fucks up our business, right?”

Tommy took a split second to muster a response, and that was it. Now was not the time to be polite. And yet May heard herself saying, “Excuse me,” in her iciest tone, slow like honey, and deliberate, “If you were going to kill me—which you’re not going to—you would have to do it for better reasons at least. If I wanted to talk to someone, I could’ve done that years ago; by the day Tommy took the Derby, I knew him well enough to talk to Churchill himself about it. (Though I’m not sure why anyone would want to. Horrid man.) You may wish to be rid of me, and that has its reasons—I suppose gangsters aren’t supposed to have nightmares—but you ought to be honest with yourself about why, at least. Have some fucking dignity.”

“I wasn’t going to—“

“I did say you weren’t going to. If only because I wouldn’t trust an actual bear to kill Tommy even if it had two men with Maxim guns as backup.”

Alfie made a half-laugh, half-scoff, but he wasn’t exactly leaning forward into the conversation. “Well, now you’ve ‘urt my fucking feelings.” He glanced to Tommy for backup, but there was a hint of a smile on that pale face that suggested he’d get no aid. He plunged in. “Look, it’s one thing for you to be seein’ him in the house, and playin in the ring with your little ponies and shit, but it’s entirely different for you to be fucking shot at! Congratulations, you’re still alive and not screaming about it, which is more than I could say of most people, but now—now you’re fucking involved, mate, on a whole different level. And there’s nothing like getting shot at to make a man rearrange his fucking priorities.” He blinked. “Or a woman. Wotever.”

They stared each other down, Alfie squinting, May smiling as if she’d put a smile on and forgotten to take it off, the horses beginning to become restless behind them.

“Alfie.” She put a hand on his arm, and when he blinked, suddenly she was very close. “I promise, on God himself, I will not, I will never, not in a thousand years...tell anyone about your tiny cock.” Smile.

And then he blinked and she was swinging back up on the horse, Tommy turning round so quickly to get back on his own that it was not possible to tell the expression on his face.

“That’s very fucking comforting!” Alfie shouted into the gentle forest air. They just looked at him, both wearing the same uncannily bland expression under which, no doubt, lurked a substantial amount of self-satisfaction.

“Get on the fucking horse, Alfie.”

“I’m a fucking veteran, you know. This is a travesty, making an old man ride a fucking animal like this. Oi.” He poked May in the back. “I can feel you laughing, you know.”

“My apologies, Mr. Solomons.” It might have sounded more sincere if she’d been able to control her laughter. Maybe it was the gin or the lack of sleep or, once again, getting threatened and shot at, but she couldn’t stop. Obviously it didn’t affect her riding since once she’d drank six gin and tonics in half an hour and then beat Algernon Thornsbury in a race, but tears were streaming down her face.

Alfie leaned in against her back. “It’s very nice, you know. My cock. Even Rachel liked it, not that you’d ever see it being a fucking gentile and a posh one at that.” The complete and utter ridiculous nature of the situation struck her once again, and she nearly cackled. Even Tommy, riding alongside them like some odd knight with his black coat flapping behind him, had a smile.

“Who said I’d want to?” she said.

“Little birdie told me you’re in the ‘abit of pining after gangsters.”

“So by that logic: I see a gangster, I want that gangster?”

“Would stand to reason, yeah.”

“If one man a habit makes, then I might as well go round propositioning every man that offers to buy my horses. What about Johnny Dogs?”

“Oh, he’d make you a fine husband,” said Tommy. “He’d love the horses, the children would love you. But then, his wife may have something to say about it.”

“I should have known he was married. The good ones always are.”

“What am I then?” rumbled Alfie behind her.

“I think you’ve tried to make it very clear you’re a bad man. What are the tattoos for otherwise?”

Alfie harrumphed and pivoted. “I can’t imagine you at a Romani wedding. You know they happen outside, right? In the mud?”

May scratched her nose. “I suppose I wouldn’t know the dances. Not really a place for the foxtrot, I’d imagine.”

Tommy said, in that special tone of voice that indicated he was barely holding on to his will to live, “Oh shut up Alfie, you’ve never been to a Romani wedding.”

“Yeah, but they happen outside, eh? You can’t tell me they don’t. You don’t have any facking ‘ouses. Now at a Jewish wedding, it’s fuckin indoors, no fuckin rain or horses. They smash a glass and it’s a grand old time. And the dances are fucking easy. Most importantly, the food is fucking delicious. Much better than some scrawny rabbits cooked on a campfire or fuckin blackberries or whatever.”

Tommy laughed humorlessly. “You sound like fuckin’ cavalry officer.” And suddenly, without knowing how, May sensed the air change. “The same bullshit they say about you, they say about us. You’re like a child, repeating anything. You really think every man, woman, and child of hundreds wants to be out in a wagon in the winter? You think we enjoy getting moved on?”

May felt sure that someone ought to say something, but she was also perfectly sure that she could not possibly be the one to say whatever it was.

“And it’s not a rabbit,” said Tommy, “It’s a stag.”

  
Alfie opened his mouth, then shut it. Any other day, and someone calling him a cavalry officer would get fuckin cut at least. Not after he’d bled in the mud and rot of France. However, this was not an ordinary day. In front of him, he could feel tension radiating off of princess posh. No doubt she’d been taught to smooth things over and not let any conflict escalate. Probably because if it did, two limp-wristed noble fucks went out to a field at dawn and counted to three and shot at each other with muskets or some shit. If he could, he’d fight Tommy but no guns. Just hand to fucking hand like he’d done on the streets of London over some girl a lifetime ago. He’d win, of course but not before he’d let Tommy get all riled up. See some emotion behind that fucking marble mask he always wore and get some fucking blood up. As he imagined pinning Tommy into the dirt, the horse sped up, and May shifted back in the saddle, coming into close contact with his upper thighs.

She shifted forward a bit, and if he thought she was tense before, she looked nearly brittle now.

“Sorry,” he mumbled under his breath.

She gave the smallest shrug. There really was nothing to be done about men, was there? They made a mess of things, they hurt each other, got shattered, and then expected other people to put them back together properly without knowing how they had been whole before. She wouldn’t have minded it nearly so much if she had been actually able to mend them, but in all her decades on Earth she’s mostly found the best that could be done was, depending on the man, a cup of tea, a listening ear, a good fuck. None of which was going to work in the present moment.

As the day wore on, she could feel it all wearing away round her, like entropy, spreading. Tommy had on his mask again, and the more ironclad the shell looked, the worse things were behind it, most likely a mix of blood loss, exhaustion, and feelings. Alfie had put his foot in it a long while ago, but it had been the last note of conversation, so according to the rules of conversation that May knew (and assumed the rest of the world operated on), it was up to him to open conversation again, and mend the tear. He wouldn’t, of course, because at the trot they were moving on, he still hadn’t perfectly got the rhythm and was probably sore as hell. Also, he kept trying to hold himself away from her, which wasn’t really possible on the saddle and not really what she wanted either, but she didn’t know how to say, “It’s all right, you can touch me,” without sending either one of them down a mental rabbithole that she did not want to have to deal with.

After riding in silence for what seemed like ages, Tommy nudged his horse over to the woods.

“Why’re we stopping?” Alfie demanded.

“They’re horses. Not automobiles. They need rest and it’s about to rain.” Sure enough, the clouds had darkened enough to match the group’s mood. May tied her horse up and ran a hand over her flanks before offering an arm to Alfie. It would be overly kind to say he dismounted; it was more of a slow slide, heavily aided by gravity.

“Fuck me, that’s unpleasant.”

As Alfie sidled around the perimeter of their little camp, Tommy wordlessly offered May a cigarette, which she accepted. It didn’t last long. Soon enough, the rain started to pour and Alfie returned from his pacing dripping wet. His beard could have almost been wrung out, and his shirt...well. As he muttered about fucking England and its fucking rain and how civilized people did their business indoors away from the mud, he briskly unbuttoned his shirt and left it hanging off the saddle. May looked away from his broad shoulders, resolving not to blush, but sneaking in a second look. After a few minutes of what was no doubt unsubtle examination, Tommy cleared his throat.

Rather than blushing more or looking away, as he’d expected, she looked him straight in the eyes, head tilting just so, entire expression shouting, _Yes, but do you blame me?_ To which he huffed back half an incredulous chuckle and—though he didn’t let on—found that he, in fact, could not.

She did stop looking, however, and luckily for all three of them, there wasn’t much room for awkwardness, because just when it seemed to be letting up, the rain came down in hard sheets. For the first few seconds, Alfie tried to stay standing, out of pure stubbornness, but after a few undignified slips and sputters and May’s eyes clearly laughing at him, he huffed his defeat (absolutely unintelligible in the rain), and huddled near the base of a tree just like the other two.

It seemed as if God himself had opened a divine spigot and was going to let the thing run till the world poured over, but it really only lasted for seven or eight minutes at most. When at last the sun had the audacity to shine as if nothing had happened, Alfie lifted his head, squinted up at it, and raised his middle finger.

May, tired, wet, disoriented, and halfway in, halfway out of love, thought for a split second of clarity: yes, absolutely, and raised hers too.

They both looked at Tommy. Blinking up at them under what had once been the notorious anti-lice cut and was now nothing more than a set of sodden bangs, he gave them a cold stare for a good twenty seconds before sighing, acquiescing, and raising his too.  
“That’s the spirit,” said Alfie, pulling himself up out of the mud with a squelch and offering his hands to the other two.

May took it quickly, but Tommy ignored it. However, after struggling to unstick his shoes from a particularly vicious patch of mud, he reluctantly grabbed onto Alfie’s wrist.

“Just like France, eh?”

“Un-fucking-fortunately. When I get to London, I’m going to sit in a bath till I’ve got fucking gills.”

May sighed. “A bath sounds heavenly.”

There was a silence for a moment as both men tried, and failed, not to picture May in a bath.

“Well,” said Alfie, shrugging on his shirt, “back on these demonic fucking creatures.”

“Just a moment.” May grabbed Tommy’s wrist. “May I?”

He shrugged, catching Alfie’s eye with a smug look. Unwrapping the now unrecognizable scarf from his arm, she gently prodded at the wound. Fortunately, it was a relatively clean shot, with no bone or arteries touched.

“Alfie, could you please give me some of the whiskey? And your knife?”

Tommy started. “What—”

Still holding firmly onto his wrist, she took the proffered whiskey and splashed some onto the wound. Tommy roared. In a quick motion, she hiked up her slip and tore through it with the knife. Once she had enough, she efficiently wrapped it around his bicep. Alfie had started to laugh as soon as he had passed her the whiskey, and he got louder as he saw the makeshift lace armband.

“Hush, both of you,” May said icily. “I’m sure you’ve seen what gangrene can do to a man.”

Earlier smugness abandoned, Tommy mounted his horse with his usual grace. May, on the other hand, missed the stirrup and crashed to the ground.

“Oh fuck. You all right, Princess?”

May paused a moment, one hand on the horse’s shoulder. She had laughed and cried and run and—well, no, she hadn’t shouted—this past day, but it still felt like she’d done all there was to be done and yet the world was throwing things at her and expecting a reaction. She decided not to give it one. “Fine,” she said, swinging up again. “But I do wish you’d told me, Tommy, what the dress code for the day was. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of trousers. If Marlene Dietrich can do it…” She flashed a quick smile, then gestured for Alfie to come up. From her posture on the horse, the comparison to Dietrich didn’t seem such a stretch.

He swung up behind her, tried to settle lightly, and failed. “Fuck,” he said, drawing out the word like a prima donna dwelling on her highest note.

“It’s all right, Alfie,” May said, patting his knee before nudging her horse into a brisk walk, “We’re not so far from the sea now.”

“And how d’you know that?” said Tommy.

“Can’t you smell it?”

Alfie grunted. “Are you really that eager to get rid of us, eh? Fuck, I think you just ‘urt my feelings. Again.”

“I’m not sure that’s quite my fault, Alfie, they seem to be such delicate creatures.”

“You don’t deny it, then.”

“I don’t deny that I would trade both these horses for a bed. But…”

“Wot?”

“I was just thinking of how scandalized my mother would be to think of a baker eating off the family china. Might be nice.”

“Well, now I can’t go.”

“Can’t you?”

“I’m a busy man. Don’t think I have time in my schedule to drive all that way only to play revenge on your mother.”

“You have time in your schedule for even the boxing matches you haven’t rigged, so I assume you have the time to pay me a friendly call.”

“Friendly?”

“I imagine any two people who have almost died together are close enough to friends to have tea. Wasn’t in my etiquette classes, but all etiquette is fifty percent improvised in the end.”

“And the boxing?”

“What about it?”

“Was it a lucky guess?”

“An educated one.”

For a moment, in the silence, they could hear the sea quite clearly.

“Fine, I’ll come to your tea party,” said Alfie

“Well, now I’ve changed my mind.”

As they crested a hill, they could see the sunlight spill out before them across the last green stretch of trees before they faded into a rocky coastline, against which lapped the sea, as deep a blue as any painter’s dreams.  
  
In this light, Tommy looked even paler than usual, and May clucked her horse to trot a few steps forward, drawing level for a moment. “How’s your arm?”

“The same.” His jaw was set.

She refused to just look away and melt back into the forest, so after a minute he cleared his throat and said, “Thank you.”

At just the moment that Alfie opened his mouth, May gave him a quick pinch on the knee, forest-side, which shut him well enough up for her to say, “It’s almost over.”

“It’s…” To say not even close would be inviting conversation, so he just repeated, flatly, “Thank you.”

May nodded slowly and deliberately once. For all her experience, it had been a long journey and even her thighs were starting to ache. She sank into her exhaustion, bone deep, so it was a shock when she felt a rough thumb swipe at her neck.

“Sorry. Bit of mud there.”

“Only a bit? I think I’m covered.” He huffed a laugh behind her.

“That may be princess, it may be. I’m just doing my part you know? Don’t want people thinking I’m having tea with a commoner, eh? I’m a fucking civic leader. Tommy Shelby says so.”

“Does he? I suppose I can’t argue with him.”

“You both do nothing but argue with me,” Tommy muttered. “Come on, we’ll have to walk the rest.”

Alfie hissed as he dismounted and his limp seemed worse. At any rate, bad enough to lean on May as she led her horse behind Tommy’s down a winding path. As they drew closer, a figure on a low barge waved a cap at them.

May knew she must have looked a sight, smudged makeup, mud, bruises and blood. If only Lady Coteswold could see her now, the judgy cow.

It was old Charlie, the same man who had offered her a gun and warned her off of Tommy not so very long ago. What must he want to say now, she thought. Perhaps she had deserved it, a little. Needed it, a little, back then. Coming into his territory armored in only fur and smiles, a gun, in retrospect, had been a decent gift, even if he hadn’t meant it that way.

As they ambled up, he disembarked to take the reins of the horses. She noted that as a formality, since the horses were fully happy to stand still anyways. To her, it was a sign that every piece of propriety and familiarity, the walls and rules that made up her world, were starting to reassemble.

The men slipped off the horses, Tommy quickly and Alfie agonizingly slowly—making far less sound that she was accustomed to, perhaps owing to Charlie’s presence.

Charlie greeted them both with perfunctory acknowledgements, the same in content but radically different in tone:

“Tommy.” He was very nearly smiling. “Mr. Solomons.” And that was most certainly not a friendly look. She wondered what she would get.

Tommy walked over to inspect the longer of the two barges and Alfie lurched after him. Charlie squinted up at May against the sun.

“Pleased to see you again, Lady Carleton.”

“So am I, Charlie. Extremely.”

Tommy watched them curiously from aboard the long barge, as he went through their makeshift medicine chest with a knife, trying to find a strip of cloth near enough to the right size for a bandage. May had, of course, rubbed every one of his family—blood or otherwise—the wrong way, being not-right in their eyes and yet not wrong enough to openly fight. He was fairly certain that Lizzie, for instance, would have by far preferred May to be a copper or an Italian; easier to deal with, that way. Charlie was harder to read. But then, he thought, Curly had liked her, which surely was a mark in—

 _Bang._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters on the way. I mean it this time. ~Ashling
> 
> PS Big thanks to simonon for reading & commenting! <3 it's nice to feel supported


	3. “Tommy fucking Shelby. Can’t even get on a fucking boat without getting shot at."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _disaster_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a mess but it's our mess

Tommy crashed flat on his back. Alfie ducked, automatically, and rewarded by several more bullets whistling overhead. “Fuck!” There seemed to be some shouting on shore, in male voices, something to the tune of stop, and he had only his knife in his hand, and did Tommy have a spare—fuck, no he didn’t, he was down cold in a pool of his own blood wide enough already to make Alfie’s insides go cold. “Fuck!”

When he peeked over the edge of the barge, he had just enough time to make out that the two horses were gone, and there were two—three?—more men on the beach. Then a bullet nearly took his ear off and he went back to lying flat.

“Go!” Who was that, Charlie? Fucking good advice, anyway, but it meant—fuck. He counted himself down: “Three, two, one,” and lunged over the edge of the barge just quick enough to slash through the anchoring rope and feel the tear of a bullet skimming through his back and shoulder for his pains. Ducking back down, he crawled on knees and elbows—”Fuck!”—through the blood, around the small shelter in the middle of the boat. Found the oar. Began rowing. He’d never steered a boat before, but it was amazing what he could do when he was just about to die.

A dozen more shots peppered the barge, but then all was dead silent. He was making good ground. Suddenly, there was a “FUCK YOU” distantly, from the beach, and then two shots. He didn’t look back. When they were a decent distance away, and certainly safe from shots, he crawled back and crouched over Tommy.

“Damn you, Tommy fucking Shelby. Can’t even get on a fucking boat without getting shot at. Eh? Tommy. Look at me.” He slapped him lightly as he could. “Keep those spooky fucking eyes open, because I’ve got no idea how to row a fucking boat.” He was stirring at least a little. Alfie decided he’d rather be lost at sea with an alive Tommy than try to make his way through Peaky rivers with their fucking lord and savior’s corpse. Taking off his shirt, he kept it pressed tight against Tommy’s side. The boat rocked and Alfie’s vision was nothing but blood. Rummaging through the medicine chest, he found cloth and bound Tommy back together. Blinking, Tommy mouthed something. Keeping his hand firm against him, Alfie leaned in. “Wot’s that, mate?”

“May—”  
  
“You’ve lost more blood than I fucking thought. I don’t look nothing like her, eh? Unless she has a big fuckoff beard I haven’t seen.”

From somewhere completely unknown, Tommy got just enough strength to ram himself a few centimeters upwards, hurting his nose a bit and knocking Alfie to the side. “Fuck! I don’t know, okay?” He leaned back and in again, this time eye-to-eye. Very quietly: “I don’t fucking know. Let’s find out, okay? You just sit there, and I’ll just fucking row, and we can find out.”

Tommy closed his eyes.

“Fuck!”

“S’n’t.”

“Wot?” Jesus, this fucking man. He leaned in again.

“‘S not for...the sea. ‘S a fuckin barge. Alfie. If we go out too far, we fuckin drown. Waves.”

“Fuck. Okay.” He rocked back on his heels a moment, processing. He tried to look around, but the barge at that angle wasn’t helping. “Don’t throw a fit, okay? I just have to look.” He replaced the pressure of his hands, as carefully as he could, with the pressure from one foot, then gingerly stretched up to have a look around. Sea to the west. Or was it the west? Fuck, the sun was almost exactly overhead, no way to know. Coastline to the east. Up to the north he thought he could see the entrance to some fucking river or water-thing, but he couldn’t be sure. And on the beach were two figures. No, three; one standing, staring back at him, one crouching over the third figure. The coastline was dotted with rocks and rocky outposts, but none that looked like a proper island. “Jesus. Alright.” He picked the closest rock, a thing that looked no larger than a four-person house, fixed its direction and distance in his mind, and crouched back down, trying to steer them to safety with one hand and hold Tommy together with the other.

“Isn’t.”

“I know. The sea. Give me a fucking second, mate, I’m working on it.”

From the weakest possible throat came something close to a growl.

“Fine!” He stopped rowing yet again and stooped. Tommy’s whisper had gotten wet, somehow. For once, Alfie hoped it was the emotion. Better that than blood.

“She isn’t there. Is she. They—”

“I don’t fucking know. I’m not fucking with you…I don’t know, all right? All right?”

“Liar.” His eyes stayed closed. His face crumpled.

Alfie sat back on his heels, arms still working. Whatever had been holding Tommy together had snapped; his face was now the face of a man who had been shot in the chest. Alfie had wanted to see some emotion, he remembered now. Hadn’t he? He’d wanted to fight Tommy, hit him hard enough to make that marble mask shatter, see something real, but not like this. Not like this.

Now that he saw Tommy in pain, he realized it wasn’t the emotion he had wanted at all.

“Look, I swear—” What was there left to swear on? None that Tommy would take to heart. “I swear I’m not lying to you. It’s not in my fucking interest, mate. If I told you they had her, you’d rise up like some fucking unholy ghost and swim all the way back, and that would be one of my problems fucking solved! Just hold the fuck on, alright? Let’s get closer to the shore so we don’t fucking drown. Because, I have to tell you mate, I am not made for swimming.” It took him a moment to get into the rhythm of rowing especially with sweat stinging the line traced by a bullet across his back but eventually, thankfully, they made it to the river. Alfie ran the boat ashore, tangled in the mud and weeds. That’s probably not how you were meant to stop a boat, but fuck if he cared.

“Okay mate I have to warn you, I’m probably not the best nurse. But I’ll get you patched up right? It’ll all be good. Especially since if you die on me, fifty fucking gypsies will put a curse on my name and I don’t need that mate, I really don’t.” Moving aside the bloody cloth, he prodded at the wound. An exit wound, thankfully, and though Tommy groaned when he prodded at his ribs, he didn’t scream, so probably no broken ribs either. If he could stop the bleeding, he’d make it long enough to see a real doctor and get stitched up. For someone who’d gotten shot twice in the last day, he was a lucky bastard. He found a camp mug and filled it with water that looked fairly clean and cleared away as much blood as he could. It had slowed down enough that he could clearly see the wound.

“Sorry, I promise I’m not trying to pull you, but gotta get those pants off. I promise not to peek.” Tommy feebly waved a hand which he took as acceptance, and peeled the bloody fabric away from his pale skin. He bandaged him up quickly, then slid his pants back up.

“Right. Good as new, eh? Might have another scar to impress girls with but you’ll be fine. Drink some water and some whiskey, then maybe you can help me figure out how the fuck to steer a boat.”

After a few minutes of Alfie puttering around the barge, investigating what they had and grousing about what they didn't, Tommy seemed to be coming back to himself, though his head ached so hard he thought he could almost hear it. “Pretty simple. Alternate—straight. More on right—turns left. More left—turns right.” He grunted, as if to say: so there, and then strained to drag himself across the barge, towards the small shelter in the middle. He got no farther than a hairbreadth before his middle felt like it was splitting open.

Tommy let out a hoarse exhale that, by the expression on his face, was roughly equivalent to the usual “Fuck!”

He stared at Alfie with all the considerable magnetism of his pale eyes, until Alfie stopped and turned. “Wot?

Ten minutes later, Tommy was in the shelter at the center of the barge, warming his hands on the tiny iron stove, drinking, and, from the expression on his face, plotting. Alfie had gotten the hang of rowing (more or less; the hull didn’t go completely unscathed), and had taken to grumbling softly to himself in a near-continuous stream.

“Jesus, Alfie. You’re covered in blood. And you’re still bleeding.”

“Oh you know, it happens, doesn’t it? Sometimes you cause the bleeding, sometimes you’re bleeding. ‘S the fucking cycle of life.”

“Take your fucking shirt off.”

“Listen, mate, just cause you almost died doesn’t mean you can ask for shit like that. I’m no fuckin molly, right?”

Tommy’s patience had not improved with the second bullet. “To stop the fucking bleeding.”

Huffing, Alfie did as he was told, letting the barge drift. Lifting his undershirt above his head, he revealed an almost perfect straight line across his back. The blood obscured but didn’t quite cover the tattoos across his neck and back. The bullet line cut through a rose wrapped around a dagger, and as Alfie braced himself against the barge’s sides he could see manacles around his wrists. “Stay still.” However, after pouring whiskey across his back, Alfie bellowed and swung his elbows back with the intention of catching Tommy. Fortunately his reflexes were still good even dulled with blood loss, and he managed to dodge the blow. “I said, stay fucking still. You might need stitches.”

Alfie twisted back to face him. “I’ll be fucking blown away before I let a half-dead pikey fuck sew me up. Wrap me up with a cloth and I can keep rowing.”

“If you don’t stop bleeding in the next hour, I will knock you over the head with an oar and do it then.”

Alfie scratched one of two eight pointed stars on his chest. “Fine. Got any tea?”

“If you can take the river water,” said Tommy, almost mildly. He kicked at a small dark thing in the corner; it turned out to be a tiny kettle. Second-class citizens they may be treated and criminals they may be, but the Shelbys were extremely English in one respect and one only; there would always, always be tea. On land or otherwise.

Alfie harrumphed, but filled the kettle and had it on the tiny stove within a minute. “You should’ve fucking told me,” he said. “‘M sure you ought to have it, being the sickest and all.”

Tommy just brandished his bottle in Alfie’s general direction. “It’s all right, nurse, I’ve got a fucking drink.”

“Yeah, yeah, but gin doesn’t make...wotever.”

Too late anyway. Tommy took a long swallow, and they both stared at the gently rocking wood beneath their feet before Tommy cleared his throat. “Right. Come here.”

“What about my tea?”

“You can have it after, and you know it doesn’t do anything, and—” How to say that the edges of his vision were not the clearest they’d ever been without scaring Alfie off entirely? He tried to infuse his voice with more authority, but since his diaphragm still felt inhabited by a colony of a hundred or so live sparks, it rasped along much as it had before, albeit a few notes deeper. “Just come here.”

“How can I refuse?” Alfie muttered, ducking in under the low doorway and crouching in front of Tommy.

“Sit.”

“Wot?”

“Fucking sit, when you’re squatting, the skin’s tensed.”

“Fuck.” He sat. Both on the ground and on his hands.

Tommy pointedly did not comment. He had the needle threaded. “Here it comes,” he said, quiet and steady as he could.

“Fuck!”

Thirty seconds into a three-minute stitch and Alfie was panting like a runaway horse. Wasn’t the first time Tommy had seen it. Men would get it over strange things, things you didn’t want to ask about. He didn’t want to ask, but it was hard not to speculate, especially since the tattoos on Alfie’s back were laced with enough scars to give him ample room for speculation. “Easy,” he found himself saying, as if Alfie would spook. He put his hand on Alfie’s free shoulder. “Easy, now. Halfway.” He wasn’t quite halfway, but what was another lie between friends?

“Your hands are fucking cold,” said Alfie, but for once in his life, he wasn’t loud.

“What’s the rose for?”

“What?”

“This.” His thumb brushed the bottom of the ink stem.

“It’s fucking Russian is what it is mate. Got it in prison, didn’t I? Fuck that hurts.”

“I’d have figured that if you can handle a tattoo in prison, then you could handle a few stitches, eh?”

“S fucking different. I was only little when I got it. Now I’m old and full of bullet holes. These tattoos, see, they mean shit. It’s a fucking code, and if you don’t live up to that code, they corner you, right? They fucking surround you and they hand you a piece of glass. If you don’t remove it yourself, they fucking remove it for you.”

“And what’d you do to earn that one? Keep still or I’ll sew your mouth shut.”  
  
“Me? I didn’t do nothing but turn eighteen in the clink. That’s a fucking celebration of life that is. Fuckin hell.”

Alfie was shaking but Tommy wouldn’t dare mention it. Not when that would undoubtedly sever the tenuous intimacy between them. He pushed the hand not holding the needle more firmly into his back. “You need to relax. It’ll be quicker if you do.”

“You try fucking relaxing with a needle in your back,” Alfie grumbled, but he gulped enough air to let his shoulders relax a little more. Brushing his fingers in the same back and forth motion he used to soothe his horses, Tommy finished the last stitch.

“There. All done. You shouldn’t row for a bit though.”

Alfie rubbed at his face with one hand. It was over, it was over, so why couldn’t he go to pieces in a less conspicuous fucking manner? He needed to go. “I’ve got two hands, innit? I’ll figure it the fuck out,” and with that he tried to get up.

Gin may not have been good for blood but apparently it gave Tommy some measure of strength back. His hand was firm. “Have a cigarette,” he said, tossing the packet over Alfie’s shoulder. Alfie fumbled with it for a second and finally got one between his teeth. “Wot now? You want me to light this with the fucking stove?”

The hand that Tommy had used to stitch him up now offered him a lighter, lit, over his shoulder.

“Fuck,” said Alfie, but with no particular heat, and accepted. To inhale the smoke slowly was good in its own way, though he could feel Tommy trying not to cough behind him.

“Just sit for a minute.” They leaned against the wall, water lapping against the sides of the boat and as the boat rocked back and forth Tommy drifted off into a fitful sleep. Alfie watched him for a minute. Without the front, he was just a man, wasn’t he? Not the fucking embodiment of the Peaky Blinders or the toughest fucker in Birmingham. Just a sad man. Not that Alfie was much better. Gin made him fucking maudlin. Or maybe that was just Tommy’s fingers, which he could still feel ghosting along his back. He’d heard of men who’d had their legs blown off in the war who swore up and down they could still feel them. Maybe it was that. Or some unnatural Romani magic. Eventually, the motion of the water got to him too, and he joined Tommy in sleep.

He awoke to a shout. “There!” Blinking, he went to push himself up and—right, Tommy was—oh, and his back ached, his whole body ached, why had he slept on the fucking—fuck! There were not supposed to be noises. There were not supposed to be other people! He yanked himself to his feet and rushed outside.

Behind them, just barely visible down the last turn in the river, was the other barge, making quick time with two men at makeshift oars. “Fuck!” There was no way he could outpace them.

Try to row, you get caught. Don’t row, you get caught. Stay on the boat: categorically, caught. Which meant. Oh fuck.

“What is it?” Tommy called, but with his weak chest Alfie barely heard any of it.

“They’re here,” he roared back. Rowing to the southern riverbank, he hopped out and lashed the barge to a young sapling. Then he turned back to Tommy. “Fuck! Did I say you could fucking do that? Who the hell gave you the fucking permission?” Tommy, wobbly and drained, was standing in the frame of the shelter and glaring.

“Not the time for a footrace, Alfie.” He tried to make it from the doorframe to the edge of the barge and failed, catching himself on the way down with the low wall round the barge.

Alfie waded through the shallows towards him. “I was thinking more hide-and-seek.” He half-lifted, half dragged him over the edge, through the water, and to the bank. Again, Tommy tried to get to his feet, and Alfie growled, in as close to a whisper as he ever got, “Stay the fuck down!” He glanced behind them. Their pursuers had closed nearly a third of the distance, and one of them had an electric torch. He looked at the barge. He looked at Tommy. “Fuck it.”

Scooping him up, Alfie lumbered into the woods, doing his best to shield Tommy’s head and mostly bludgeoning his way through the underbrush till he found a particularly close knot of trees, where he laid Tommy down as best he could, got down on his knees, and took out his knife.

He wanted a gun, but he almost wanted a watch more. Time under the moon stretched and twisted like taffy and he had no idea how long it took for the men to disembark, or how long they seemed to crash about in the woods, always close, always, it seemed within reach. How many times had he stopped himself from ending it all and lunging out with the knife?

And then came more footsteps. Not as crashing, but still excruciatingly audible in the night.

“That’s it,” he heard someone way, distantly, from the west, down along the riverbank. “There’s—”

“Shut up!” hissed another voice, imperious, but no, that wasn’t possible—

“Now!” The forest exploded round him in beams of light and splinters of wood as whoever the hell it was turned on their electric torches and began firing.

After a few excruciating minutes and what seemed like the death of a dozen trees, the shooting petered out, the torches went off again, and Alfie found himself covered with dirt, leaves, and splinters of wood, in the dark. Somehow, he was still very much alive, Tommy still alive (which Alfie had seen to personally, shielding him as best he could), and the knife still in his hand.

There was dead silence, maybe a moan or grunt from one side or the other, and then.

“Tommy!”

It was May.

Alfie lifted his head. “Where in the blistering fuck have you been?”

* * *

  

When the first shot had rang out, May once again found herself on the back of a horse that first panicked and reared, then wisely tore back down the path it had just travelled. Leaning in low to present less of a target—was she getting used to this?—she quickly put distance between her and the sea. The difference this time of course, was that if there were gangsters behind her, their intentions were less honorable. Adrenaline had left her mind blank and her throat tight. She’d seen Tommy fall, there could be no ambiguity about it. Fuck. What was she going to do? After the ocean had fallen into a faint roar in the distance, she circled her mare back around. The thudding sound of a horse thundering up the path made her tense, but thankfully, blessedly, it was Tommy’s, now riderless. She followed him until he slowed enough for her to approach.

“Alright now, hush. It’s alright,” she murmured, either for the horse or herself. “Where is he, hmm?” Her hands trembled. “It’ll be alright.”

The horse seemed to buy it, at least, for it whuffled a little and let her approach, let her stroke its soft nose and have a little conversation with it as she made her way around it, checking what she had left in the saddlebags and making sure neither of the horses was injured.

“Gave you a scare, did it? That’s all right. Anybody would’ve been scared. But you see, all four legs are fine, and if the legs are fine, the horse is fine!” She gave the spotted one a little pat. “I know we just came back this way, but could you do me a favor, dear, and come back with me? Better boring than dangerous, right? And he’s made of steel at the core, which has always been half the problem, anyway. Right? All right. Come on now.” And with that, she mounted the spotted again, clucked gently at the grey, and set off for the Lees’ camp.

* * *

   
The difference between entering the camp with Tommy and entering the camp alone was palpable. She sensed that perhaps a few of the children—and yes, there was Pietro, darling—were still a little bit fond of her, but they could tell well enough from the expressions of their parents that they should let well enough alone.

“Where’s Johnny Dogs?”

The man speaking to her bristled. “What’s it to you?”

“I was...merely curious.” She mustered up what remained of her once-considerable reserves of cheerfulness and charisma and offered her hand. “I’m May Carleton.”

“So you said.” He did not take her hand. “Tell them what else you said.”

“I—pardon?”

“Tommy was shot.”

She looked away for just a moment, and regretted it as soon as she had. “Yes.”

“And you left him.”

There was nothing to say to that. He was right. But how many times had her governess told her that in the course of a conversation, both sides had to play? More out of habit than anything, she said, “The horse ran.”

That didn’t give her much leeway. Her interrogator—no, that wasn’t fair, they loved Tommy just as much as, well. They loved Tommy.

The man addressing her spoke again. “Wait here.” A cluster of men gathered on the other side of the field, looking back at her as they spoke. She should present a strong front, she knew, but she’d been shot at. Twice! It was exhausting. She leaned against the comforting flanks of her mare and inhaled. At least there was this, the feel of a horse’s flank against her hand and the comforting warmth.

After a few moments, a few more horses trotted towards camp, surrounded by a boisterous crowd. Among the sea of men stood a woman, a line of snared rabbits trailing over her shoulder. Her dark eyes caught May’s and flickered over her clearly assessing. Her face went from a smile to cold in a heartbeat, and she strode forward out of her party. “Who the fuck is this?”

May waited while the man explained it all in his own inflated and unnecessary way, and although the woman wasn’t looking at her directly, May still got a sense of her presence, a magnetic mix of authority and ease which reminded her of the feeling she got in the stables on a good day. Only this woman looked like this was simply who she was, and May knew now who she had to get on her side.

When the man finished up with his usual, “And, Esme...she left him,” the woman, Esme, took the wind out of his sails with a slight smile.

“So what’s the problem? Bundle her up, send her home.”

“She tried to hide!”

“From you? What woman wouldn’t? It’s the fucking woods.” She turned to May. “You can wait till after supper. Then we’ll take you back.”

“I’m not going back.”

“Then what is it you think you’re going to do?”

“I’m going to get him.” The audacity of it shut them up for just long enough, and May barreled onwards. “I need a doctor, armed men, a fresh horse, and a map.” An incredulous smile spread across Esme’s face, and May knew that if she didn’t get the rest of it out with the skill of an Antony and the speed of a bullet, the next words out of Esme’s mouth would be on something about the fuckin’ gentry.

“However you feel about me, and however you feel about him, you can’t say life is better without him than with him. You can’t say it, can you?” She could see Esme weighing that.

“Decades of my life went by without him, and the worst I ever had was four days’ sickness. Now look at me.” She gestured at her dress, ruined, tattered, arms scraped from the underbrush, mud aplenty everywhere, hair beyond bird’s nest. “Almost shot twice in two days, but I can’t say it, either. I’m not leaving this forest without him.”

Esme’s face had settled and now gave nothing away. Quietly, almost mildly: “You said he was shot.”

“Twice, yes.”

“If he’s dead?”

The true answer to that was far more ridiculous than even this situation could allow, so she went for second-best—no, third-best. “Germans couldn’t kill him, Irish couldn’t kill him, Italians couldn’t kill him. What makes you think two boys with a boat just did?”

Esme smiled thinly. “He was always good at making his own myths.” And with that, she turned round and crouched over the fire.

“Well?”

“We’re having supper first,” said Esme.

Pietro had emerged again, and was clinging to Greta’s skirts as she stood a distance away, clearly wanting to approach but shy.

“Hello, you two.” Might as well try to speak to the only friendly faces.

After a quick glance at Esme who didn’t seem to object, Pietro broke away from his sister and grabbed onto May. “I thought you weren’t coming back! Like Aunt Esme because she got married but then there were some bad things and then she came back but she brought my cousins and some sweets and my cousin Katie found a frog in the mud and she screamed but I like frogs and—”  
  
“All right Pietro. Leave her alone.” Greta approached nervously with the coltish awkwardness of a fourteen year old, her fingers fidgeting at her neck.

“That’s alright, I don’t mind,” said May, smoothing Pietro’s hair back from his face as he bounced by her feet. “What a pretty necklace!”

Greta smiled. “My dad gave it to me. It was my mum’s.”

“Miss! We have to go get supper, come on! They’ll run out! Patty always takes more than he should and I’m hungry!”

She let the little boy take her grubby hand and lead her to a series of fires and the smell of roasting meat. There were still some side glances of course, but having Pietro chatter away while holding onto her and the acceptance of Esme, now surrounded by a gaggle of children as she spoonfed a toddler diminished the unease somewhat. Greta handed her a tin plate and a spoon, and she loaded her plate with potatoes and some rabbit before she joined the children around the fire. Pietro’s near constant commentary about his misadventures that day added to the background chatter. She’d even managed to get a few words out of Greta before Esme sat by them, a toddler still on her hip and a sleepy child trailing after her.

“Right,” Esme said. “After supper, we’ll load up the horses. I’ve got about five men coming and our healer Harriet. Can you shoot?”

“How much different is a man from a duck?” May thought Esme might have smiled, but that maybe-smile was quickly gone and Esme’s entire attention became absorbed by a detailed and precise account of coughs and sneezes from one of the little ones.

After that had been settled by a few hugs and a general reminder to take as much hot honey water as possible, Esme turned back to her.

“So how did you get here?”

“Someone tried to kill Tommy, and I happened to be in the way.”

“How did you get there, then?”

“I train his horses. Grace’s Secret, that was me.”

“Oh?”

Not a path May wanted to go down. “Armageddon, also me. And Jack’s Boy.”

“Mm.” A contemplative pause. Then Esme fixed her with a look. “Is it massive?”

“Pardon?”

Esme’s face made the meaning of it quite clear. “Is it? Because it never made any fucking sense. Grace, maybe. A spy, of course a fucking narc would enjoy the company of our best liar. But all the rest, I mean, Jesus. He’d kill your mother and get offended when he wasn’t invited to the funeral. You’ve won the Derby and you’re in these fucking woods asking for a horse so you can go get him?”

May wanted to bury her face in her hands, so she laughed instead. “He’s, ah. Good with horses.”

“Right, you like horses...so fuck a fucking horse.”

May’s mouth betrayed her staid upbringing by flattening out. “Let’s just go get Tommy.”

Esme handed her a rifle. And then, after a moment’s consideration, two boxes of ammo.

“Pietro will take you through a cutaway to the canals. You can search the banks. I’ll head to the beach, see about Charlie.”

She nodded, resolute. Getting shot at when you weren’t expecting it was one thing, but it was quite another to charge into the breach as it were. She wondered if this was how Ian had felt before hoisting himself out of the trenches, before deciding it did not do to be morbid. Pietro grasped her hand again before she followed the now silent little boy deeper into the forest. After a few tense minutes with her rifle weighing like bricks against her shoulder, Pietro indicated a break in the trees ahead.

“The barge is up there. Da and Patty are on it. You’ll both be alright, won’t you?” The sight of his eyes shining piteously in the moonlight was enough to break anyone’s heart. She crouched down to his level.

“Of course we will, dearest. I just need to get your uncle Tommy back, alright? Now go back to camp and I’ll see you soon.”

Stepping through the trees, her eyes found the low lying barge in the moonlight with two men sat still. She crossed the gangplank, a thin sheet of metal that looked as if it was on it’s second or third use. The older man nodded at her, before putting a finger to his lips. The younger man, who couldn’t be more than fifteen, was nearly vibrating in excitement. God, what was it with men and fighting? She nodded back to show her understanding of the silence before cradling the rifle. The barge pushed off, and as either a testament to his skill or some strange magic, but the night was silent except for the river and the rustle of the wind in the trees. After what seemed like eons of the surreal sight of the moon’s reflection on the river, she pointed.

Another barge broke up the ripple of the water. It had been rammed shoddily into the bank. Pietro’s father docked down the river, with enough space to run if necessary before helping her to the bank. The three padded along the bank before an outstretched arm nearly caught her. He gestured at a rowboat paddling from the direction of the sea. Her fingers tightened against the stock of the rifle. Two figures scrambled into the woods ahead of them which the boaters noticed and shouted. As they drew closer, it was obviously the men from the beach. “That’s it! There’s—” the boy burst out.

“Shut up,” she hissed but it was too late. Pietro’s father had drawn a pistol.

“Now!”

Those that had electric torches turned them on; everyone fired. It was not exactly Marquess of Queensberry rules, but they had in some sense fired first, at the beach, without warning. She could not be entirely sure that she hit, but very soon it seemed those two figures were no longer standing. Whether they had been killed or merely reached cover, she couldn’t tell, but with the veritable shower of bullets, it was difficult to imagine they’d been entirely unscathed.

The silence was intolerable. It had all reached the conclusion she’d asked for and none of it felt right. She wanted the waiting over, one way or another. Fuck it. “Tommy!” she shouted.

Alfie replied instead. “Where in the blistering fuck have you been?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: interactions with Shelby family members proves somewhat difficult for our three ¿heroes? as the status quo attempts to reassert itself.


	4. “Do you know how many hours it’s been since I killed a man?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> interactions with Shelby family members proves somewhat difficult for our three ¿heroes? as the status quo attempts to reassert itself.

“Where is he?” May demanded.

Alfie opened one eye, then the other, then sat up. He’d fallen asleep in one of those wooden hospital benches.

“Ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t allow you in there,” the boy stammered.

“What time is it?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am?”

“Check your pocket-watch and tell me the time.”

“Um, it’s...seven in the morning, ma’am. I really can’t—”

“Do you know how many hours it’s been since I killed a man?

“I really d—”

“Less than twenty-four, I can tell you that fucking much.”

Before a scuffle could break out, Alfie let loose a huge yawn, turned round, and said: “Aw, leave him alone, May. He’s only little.”

“Alfie?” In a rare turn of events, both May and Finn looked extremely pleased to see him.

“Fuckin’ hell, May, you spent less than three fucking days in the woods and already you’re threatening the lives of small children.”

“He’s not exactly small. And he’s in my way.”

Finn didn’t know how to look, and Alfie took pity on him. “It’s all right, mate, I’ve got it.”

Apparently Alfie’s tactics of calming people down were working about as well as they usually did; May looked more intense than ever, a mixture of worry and anger that he did not know how to handle and therefore didn’t try to. “You put me in a car and tried to send me to a hotel?”

“You were out cold, mate, what was I—”

“You should know better.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat. “Sorry.”

Whatever she’d been expecting, it was not that. It showed in her hesitation before, “I take it he’s still alive?”

“Yeah. Surgery in an hour or two, they say.”

“Can I see him?”

He hesitated.

“Don’t. Whatever lie it is you’re thinking of, whatever you’re trying to protect—”

“He’s in there. As—”

She had started, then stopped and was giving him a diamond-cutting glare.

“As are other people,” he finished.

Pure incredulousness, mixed with not a small amount of rage.

“Thought you should know,” he mumbled to himself, then settled back down in his seat and prepared to hear the fireworks.

She walked in with her back straight and imperious expression that she’d had when she’d confronted the ridiculous men only rule of the track, but she was disarmed at the sight of a woman hunched next to Tommy’s bedside, a rosary clasped in her hands. God, he was so still. However distraught the woman looked, her eyes were the same steel as Tommy’s as she caught May in her gaze and stood protectively.

“Mrs. Shelby, I’m sorry to intrude. Is he alright?”

“Full of bullets, but alive. And it’s Gray.”

“My apologies. I’m—”

“I know who you are. You’re the rich widow Tommy likes to bury his cock in. I’m sorry if he’s implied otherwise, but you are absolutely not family and you are not needed here. I’d advise you return to your estate and take care of your horses away from my nephew.”

May steeled herself. “I was there when he was shot. I helped keep him alive and I have a right to be here. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. But I will be outside until he comes back in from surgery and I will be here when he wakes up.”

Polly kept her eyes steady. “Outside. Room’s for family only.”   
May exhaled. “Alright. Thank you.”

There was no shouting, as Alfie had expected. Instead, after only a minute, May emerged from the room looking as if she’d seen him dead. “It’s fine,” she said shortly. After a moment, she sat down next to him, jaw working a little but body gone perfectly still in that way she had, sometimes, trying to turn to stone.

“I—”

“No,” she said. “Don’t.” It was a long time before she said anything else. “Five seconds.”

“Wot?”

“I only wanted five seconds to check his pulse. I know she wouldn’t be in there if he was dead. But he looks dead. He was right there, and I…” She swallowed. Her face was a study in stillness, which he found more impressive than almost any of the other things she’d done in those days. “She must hate me.”

“She doesn’t fucking know you, how could she possibly fucking hate you?”

“Who would do this if they didn’t fucking hate me?”

He wanted badly to say or do something about it—she looked more foreign than she ever had with that perfectly smooth face—but Finn was there, and that face would never budge in the presence of an enemy, even an incidental one.

“Come on,” he said gruffly. “Get up.”

A touch of incredulousness broke through.

“Get up, let’s have a smoke.”

“I think I’ve smoked more with you two than I have in a month,” she murmured, but she tucked her hand in his proffered arm and went outside with him.

The streets of Birmingham reeked of shit and human misery and May wanted nothing more, selfishly, than to be bundled up in bed or astride a horse out on a field somewhere miles from human company. However,the thought of leaving Tommy made her heart ache so she stayed next to this broad, strange man, silently smoking a cigarette.

“You know what?” he said. “For all the smoke stacks and fucking human excrement, I’d rather be out here than in there. Hospitals are where people go to die, and you can smell that in the air. It’s fucking morbid is what it is. At least out here—” He waved his arm. “You know people are fucking living. They’re living miserable lives, but at least it’s not cold and antiseptic.”

“That’s a very philosophical way to think about the fact that there’s someone pissing on that streetlamp, Mr. Solomons.”

“Yeah well you know me, fucking Socrates. So what, may I ask, does a Jewish baker wear to a goyim’s estate?”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten. Unless you hit your head on the riverbank, in which case, you’ve proposed marriage and all your wealth to me.”

“Of course. Tea. Whatever you’d like. You can even bring some bread.”

Alfie huffed. “I think brown bread for you, yeah? Liven you up and make sure you don’t need a fainting couch or summat.”

She smiled but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. He clapped her on the back brusquely. That seemed an appropriate form of personal contact, right?

“He’ll be alright,” Alfie said. “Fucking unholy immortal, he is. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d struck a deal with the fucking devil for Billy Kimber’s racetracks and eternal life.”

This time the smile did reach her eyes.

“Oh fuck me.” Alfie straightened against the wall. “Arthur fucking Shelby. How’s the New Testament?”

May could practically hear the gears grinding in Arthur’s head. Competitor who had double-crossed him and sent him off to prison? Titled horsey bedwarmer of his brother? Fraternizing? Outside the hospital where said brother lay close to death?

“Please don’t try to kill him,” she said dryly. “I’ve had such a time these past few days, I’m beginning to tire of saving lives.”

“Lady Carleton,” Arthur said. She’d forgotten how much of his voice was composed of pure growl, even when he wasn’t trying to make it so. And she had a feeling that this time, he was. He shot Alfie the filthiest look imaginable, then glanced over his shoulder at the door, so quickly May almost missed it. Then he was back to glaring, but she knew more or less what he was by then. They were all miserable in their separate ways; she wanted to go in but couldn’t; he had to and didn’t want to. So then.

“Have a cigarette,” she said, so mildly it was almost soft.

He shot Alfie one last glare, then accepted. For the space of a few puffs, everything was (relatively) peaceful, but she could practically feel Alfie on her left building up to poke the sleeping bear on her right, and then she knew it would probably go worse than it had with Polly.

“How’s your family, Arthur?” She was gratified by how ill he concealed his surprise.

“They’re alright, yeah.” And then a slight smile. “Billy’s a fucking racehorse now. The way he crawls. Almost stepped on him the other day, I thought he was in the sitting room, went to get a beer from the icebox, and there he was.”

Alfie, next to her, was almost vibrating with the need to say something about that, so she shifted her weight and stepped on his toe.

“That’s lovely,” May said. “How many months old?”

“Almost to eight, yeah. They say that’s nearly walking age.”

“It is.” She smiled at the thought.

“How’s, uh, you? Your family? How are they?”

“As well as usual,” she said.

“They’re fucking dead, you idiot.” Alfie’s foot was still pinned, but his tolerance for pain went far beyond anything May had the will to inflict. “Speaking of, why don’t you go in there and check on little Finrod, make sure he’s doing all right? Sure, he’s only little, but you’re running out of brothers, innit.”

Arthur pushed off the wall, and May had to move fast to physically insert herself between the two. Arthur’s face had gone nearly red.

“I owe you a cut throat,” he growled.

Alfie gave a belly laugh. “Take a number, mate. Or, better yet, come back in 1955. I may have gotten through half the Italians by then.”

“We-are-so-sorry, about Tommy, he’s—” May was crowding Alfie back, even throwing an elbow as discreetly as she could. “Strong as a horse, I’m sure he’ll be fine—”

With a rather Alfie-esque incoherent snarl, Arthur stalked into the hospital.

May fell away and turned to Alfie, glaring.

“We?” he said, unperturbed.

“Are you not sorry about Tommy?”

“Well, you were doing it all fucking wrong.”

“What?” Oh no, the woods. That should have been pardon. Never mind. Never mind.

“‘E was never going to go in with that sop you were feeding him.”

“You mean actually listening to him? Hearing about his young son? Incredibly simple human courtesy?”

“‘Uman...look, if anything, right, that shit was going to make him flee the fuckin’ hospital. ‘E’s not going to want to think about fuckin’...mortality and his son in the same fucking minute. You had to fucking scare him. But you’re too scared yourself for that, innit?”

“And the bit about the Italians?”

“Oh, that was just for me.” He grinned. “Can’t ‘ave im going soft on me. Still want to fight him one of these days.”

May rolled her eyes. Oddly enough, she didn’t find his chuckle abrasive, but warm. Chalk it down to the woods, probably still wearing off. “Just…” She gathered the air with one hand.

He handed over the cigarette and they smoked in companionable silence for a moment.

When she was younger, she’d gotten her tonsils out, and her father had brought her ice chips and patted her hand. She hoped someone was getting Tommy ice chips and patting his hand. Polly didn’t seem the type, but maybe that was just coldness to outsiders. May pulled out another cigarette and tried to light it but the flame kept flickering out.

“Here.” Alfie gently took the lighter away and cupped his hands around the flame. “My mum used to say a lady should never light her own cigarette, eh? Can’t have people thinking you’re common.”

“Thank you.” She took a drag, then let her thoughts drift away with the smoke, watching the end glow. A group of men with the distinctive caps rounded the corner and Alfie grabbed her, pulling her into a tight embrace and burying his head into her shoulder. Instinctively, her non-cigarette hand came up around his back.

Slowly, he pulled away. She looked like she’d been fucking slapped, staring at him with those big brown eyes, but her hand was still resting on his back, only a fingertip away from where Tommy’s had been when he’d stitched him up.

“Sorry. Didn’t feel like navigating the intricacies of this delicate fucking situation with a bunch of Peakys who just found out their fearless leader’s been shot.”

May cleared her throat and moved her hand back. Even that was fucking delicate. How the fuck was she here out on these streets covered in three people’s blood and with dirt smudged on her collarbone? He wanted to fucking bundle her up and—and that particular fucking dog did not limp, let alone run.

“You should go in,” he said gruffly. “Bat your eyelashes at Finn and I bet he’ll give you the fucking safe combination.”

She let a slow stream of smoke out of the corner of those fucking rose-petal lips that made him think of nothing but damnation and nodded. “I’ll let you know how he’s doing in a moment.” Flicking aside the remaining half of a cigarette in the type of wasteful gesture only the rich (and the supremely arrogant) were permitted, she paused and looked up at him. “Are you alright, Alfie?”

“Right as fucking rain. Go on and check on our boy yeah? Make sure they’re giving him the good shit. Only morphine for Tommy fucking Shelby.” By the time the clicking of her heels had faded behind the doors, he was already rounding the corner, and when she came out, flushed and with tears in her eyes, he was gone.

For a moment, she couldn’t see properly. She’d woken with no handkerchief, so she tried to dash the back of her wrist across her eyes quickly, see if that helped. It only helped a little. Less than a minute ago, she had been sure she belonged in that hospital, if not by Tommy’s will or her own than by dint of sheer bloody hard work. It was amazing what three words could undo, and amazing that out of a family composed of ruthless killers, it was a pinch-faced, red-eyed toddler saying, “Who are you?” that ended up cutting her off for good.

Unaccountably, the sight of the empty patch of wall Alfie had been leaning on made her feel disappointed, somehow. It should have been obvious; if earlier had been any indication, these streets weren’t friendly to or even minimally tolerant of him. And also, he was a known criminal with absolutely no record of fidelity in his professional or private life. Right? “Right,” she said, under her breath, to herself.

It seemed that the universe, such as it was, did not approve of her seeing Tommy. There’d been the horse, running; the exhaustion, making her faint; and now the entire family, consciously or unconsciously, warding her off. The strand of stubborn in her came up short against this much reality, against a whole city that looked at her with suspicious eyes.

If he lived, she would not be allowed to see him, not at first, anyway. Not until he woke, and when he did she would most likely not be at the top of the schedule. If he died she would not be invited to the funeral. So why stand there?

She caught a cab that by miracle or by some remnant of reputation delivered her exactly where she asked, booked into the hotel, walked to her room, locked the door behind her, threw herself on the bed, and closed her eyes.

* * *

 

There were not words to describe the process of coming back into his body. Even floating on morphine, the sting in his side kept his thoughts dark and small. Blinking he looked around. Hospital, definitely. Not dead then. Not yet. “Daddy!” Charlie squirmed out of Polly’s lap.

Tommy tried to speak, but his throat was fucking parched, so he settled for pulling his son’s head close and kissing it, inhaling deeply. Not dead.

“I’m going to fucking murder you, Thomas.” Poll straightened the covers. “How the fuck do you get shot at on your own property? Drink this.”

He sniffed at it and croaked, “Only water?”  
  
“You can have whiskey when you’re not in a fucking hospital.”

He nodded and drank.

Polly ran a hand across his forehead like she did centuries ago when he’d spend a night shaking with fever. “Your brothers are worried sick. I’ll get them.”

Arthur traipsed in a moment later with Linda directly behind, Billy propped on one hip and flowers on the other. As she fidgeted with water and a vase, Arthur grasped the hand Charlie hadn’t draped himself over.

“Alright, Tommy? Don’t worry, we’ll get the bastards who did this to ya.” Across the room, Linda half-heartedly muttered “language” but with no real conviction to it.

“We need a family meeting. They’ve come for me so they’re almost certainly coming for you. We’ve only killed one. Where’s Ada?”

Polly spoke up. “She was here earlier, but Karl got the same flu Millie’s got so she’s in my house watching him. I’ll call her. Where is Finn?”

“He was watching the street with Isaiah.” Polly strode off and Charlie had begun to play with his fingers, telling a story in his sweet baby voice.

“Arthur,” Tommy said, “Did you see Alfie Solomons near the hospital?”

“I did, yeah. He was with that girl, the posh one.”

“Where—”

“If I catch you smoking cigars again, I’ll smack you till you see stars, is that clear, Finnegan? Now come talk to your brother.” All but dragging him in by the ear, Polly deposited a mulish Finn at the foot of Tommy’s bed. “Ada’s on her way.”

“Poll, where’s May Carleton?” Her kohled eyes narrowed.

“She left. I don’t know where.”

Tommy let that lie for a moment while he talked with Finn and Charlie. Charlie, mostly, for Finn at sixteen was still a quiet lad around the adults at least, observant in ways that reminded Tommy of himself and mild in ways that never did. Even with three glasses of water down his throat, Tommy couldn’t say much, either, so it was up to Charlie to fill in the gaps and he did his job admirably, taking them down the road to stables, through a dizzying array of horse facts given to him by Curley, back up and into the house for a treatise on cooking plum pudding, and finally ending with an enthusiastic and detailed description of a zoo he was planning. By the end of it, Tommy and Finn were both smiling not just with eyes but lips too, and Polly had to stop herself from saying, I wish your mother could this.

Arthur poked his head in. “Ada will be here in a minute. Are you sure you don’t want to talk to the doctor, Tommy? He keeps going on at me about rest, and—”

“Does he say I’m going to die in the next twenty-four hours?”

“No, but—”

“Then fuck him. Finn, could you take Charlie for a minute? I need to have a word with Polly before the meeting.”

Finn obligingly picked up Charlie and set him in his lap, whereupon Charlie reached for Finn’s cap and Finn had to chuck it on the nearby nightstand.

“Finn? Outside.”

“Right.”

Once they were outside, Polly leaned against the far wall and looked at him. “I take it you’ve found who it was let those bastards on your land.”

“That’s what the family meeting’s for, Pol. Why did you send them away?”

“Alfie’s not family. And Arthur said he came this close to blinding him there on the street. It’s a miracle we didn’t start another world war with you in that bed.”

“And May? Got into a brawl with Linda, did she?”

“She’s not family, either. And she had her makeup smudged. She probably drove off to the estate to take a bath, Lord knows she needed one.”

That sounded wrong, but the last thing Tommy remembered of her was Alfie saying, I don’t see her, as they rowed away, and what had happened since then could have been everything. So instead of objecting, all he said was, “She’s agreed to let me buy her horse.”

“Ha!” But he just looked at her with the same even eyes. “Jesus Christ, how long it does take you men to learn your fucking lessons.” Again, his expression remained unchanged. “I thought at least your ego would prevent this, seeing as she was your second choice last go-around.”

That hit its mark. He leaned back just an inch, and considered her, slowly. “And Aberama Gold?”

“Is no-one’s second choice.”

“Even with Ruben Oliver back in London nine days ago?”

The door flew open and Ada burst in, surrounded by an extremely odd-smelling cloud of perfume and medicine. Without stopping, she went straight from door to bed to massive hug, squashing his face in her fur collar and earning a muffled, “Hello,” whose dryness was entirely erased by the one-armed hug he gave in return.

Finally Ada leaned back and sat on the bed next to him. “You bastard.” She pinched his good arm. “You’re far too old to keep winding up in hospital. Look at this.” She stroked his hair. “You see this, Poll? He’s going to be fucking grey next year, believe it.”

“That’s lovely, Ada thank you,” Tommy said dryly. “Karl alright?”

She nodded but worry was clearly still etched on her face. For him or her son or both he didn’t know.

“Right. Get Finn out of the hallway and we’ll have a meeting.” He pushed himself up to some semblance of sitting up as Finn came back in, Charlie still clinging to his coat. Linda, who had been cradling Billy grabbed Charlie’s hand and lured him out to the hall with the promise of seeing some pigeons.

“It’s not the Italians.”

Polly sighed. “Oh thank fuck.”

“I’m not sure who yet, but if it was the Italians they’d have never let us get away. It’s someone new, someone inexperienced. It’s no one official either, because if it was they’d have arrested me and let Lady Carlton go. Has the business made any big moves lately?”

“Can’t think of anything. What’s been happening in America, Ada?”

She shook her head, fidgeting with her necklace. “It’s been quiet since things’ve died down with the Italians. No one wants to fuck with us after we survived the Mafia.”

“Pol?”

“The last thing I can think of is the strike.”

“Fuck. Ada, find Jessie Eden as soon as you can, alright? Talk to her see what she knows. Arthur, keep Linda and Billy close. You can probably go home but stay by the telephone. Take Charlie with you alright? I don’t want him getting sick.”

Under the mustache, Arthur smiled. “I’ll take care of him. Teach him how to feed chickens.” Tommy grasped his hand tightly as he could.

“Thank you. Polly, look into the records. Make sure there’s nothing we’re missing. I’ll come back as soon as I can.” Polly grabbed her purse and pointed sternly at him.

“Rest. We’ll take care of things.” After leaving a lipstick print on his cheek, Ada left also, her heels clicking after Polly’s.

“Finn. Call hotels until you find Lady Carleton. Tell her I’m alright, please.”

As Finn left, Arthur leaned in and slipped a bottle of whiskey under the covers with a wink before grasping his shoulder. “See you soon, brother.” As he left the room, Tommy heard him talking to Charlie. “Guess what mate, you get to come stay with us and I think Auntie Linda will make us some cake. Would you like that, hmm?”

As the noise and bustle of his family faded into the background din of the hospital, Tommy sighed, leaning back for a moment before grasping for the telephone on the night table. “Alfie Solomons, please.”

After a couple rings, a very blurry voice growled, “Listen, sweetheart, this better be fuckin’ important, because if I don’t get two hours’ sleep strung together pretty soon I’m gonna drive over to that massive fuckin’ house of yours, poison all your tea, burn down the house, and replace every last ‘orse with a fuckin donkey, all right?”

“I can call back later.”

“Tommy! You’re not dead.” Silence for a moment, then: “What a fuckin’ disappointment, eh?”

Tommy laughed quietly. “I’m almost as disappointed as you are.”

Companionable silence for a moment, then: “Well?”

“What?”

“Have you cut up the fucking leak yet, or am I going to to have to drive all the way back down and do it myself? ‘Cause I don’t mind telling you, Tommy, if I never go to that pisshole of a city of yours, it will be too fucking soon.”

“I’ve been awake all of twenty minutes.”

“You’ve gone soft is what you’ve done...”

Silence.

“Is that all? Cause I could be fuckin sleeping right now, mate.”

“There’s still the matter of transferring Daniels’s shares.”

“Now that’s such fucking small potatoes the sprouts haven’t even broken the dirt yet. Get a fucking accountant on that. And if you’re bored, call your fucking...horse-trainer. Think she wants to schedule a tea-party or summat.”

Alfie hung up.

Three seconds later, as Tommy was in the midst of dialing, the phone rang. “Yes?”

“It took me five hundred hours to haul your ass all the way from that fucking river to the fucking hospital. You stained my favorite shirt, and you owe me a massive fucking favor. So don’t fucking die.” Alfie hung up again.

Tommy chuckled, took a nip of whiskey, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

After long bath while her clothes had been sent out to be laundered, brushing her hair and teeth for an equally long time, a nap, a..few phone calls to her estate and Alfie, and one of the most delicious meals she’d ever eaten, May was feeling ready to be committed to an asylum. She’d read the paper, and was almost offended that the world had continued to turn while she’d been in the woods. The king had addressed Parliament, dogs had delivered medicine to a town in America, the Soviet Union had established diplomatic relations with Japan, and she had killed a man. Maybe. How the fuck what she supposed to go back to her estate? Everytime she shut her eyes she heard gunshots.

“Right” she murmured, knocking back some cold tea to fortify herself. Visiting hours be damned. She was a lady, for fuck’s sake. She’d probably donated to this hospital once upon a time. And now that the sleeplessness and misery had been separated, she realized she had enough strength to go back, even if it meant facing down every Shelby from Arthur to Charlie in the process.

When Tommy opened his eyes again, the shadows were longer, and someone was arguing outside the door. “Lady Carleton, I understand—”

“Do you? If you understood, I would already be in the room and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Now I must insist I be allowed in before I speak to the head nurse, who I’m sure will be much more understanding.” This must have cowed her opponent enough for her to burst into the room.

“Leave it,” she snapped at the Peaky Blinder who followed her in. Tommy nodded at him. Will, he thought it was, but without his glasses it was hard to tell him apart from his twin brother. At any rate, the man looked relieved to return to his post at the door.

“Tommy.” It was a combination of a whisper and a prayer, and she took his hand in hers gently. Her clothes were still torn and stained, but not muddy. She looked marginally less exhausted.

They stared in silence for a moment, and he was struck by how wrong he had been to think she’d leave the city without seeing him. He nearly crawled over the edge of the boat and into the ocean at the thought of her shot dead on the beach, and he could see from the look on her face that she knew the feeling.

“Hello, May,” he managed to say, and at the sound of his voice, she flinched. “Now don’t cry, alright? I’m alive. Better in no time.”

She sniffled. “I’m sorry. You must think I’m ridiculous.”

“No, it’s alright,” he said. He tried to brush away her tears, but she just leaned into the touch and placed a kiss on his pale wrist. “I’m alright,” he repeated, as if that would help. Jesus Christ, she was worse off now than when he’d found her, and when he’d found her she was still half-broken over her dead husband, and wasn’t that something? Call it another sin to answer for.

Exhaling a long, slow, breath, she straightened. “Do you need anything? Horrible of me to visit without bringing something. My mother would have a fit if she knew.”

He smiled one of those beautiful slow smiles that felt like a sunburst on a cloudy day. “Arthur left some whiskey, and I still have cigarettes.”

She tsked. “Whiskey doesn’t make blood either, Tommy.”

“No, but it does make getting shot hurt less.” He cleared his throat. “We think the shooters might be connected to Communists. They might target you because of your connection to me. Where are you staying?”

“The Mount, why?”

“Have you checked in under your name?”

“Yes, of course—oh.”

“Go to this address in Small Heath and stay there until tomorrow morning, alright? Finn will take you. Don’t talk to anyone outside my family. Here’s the key.” Even in his morphine haze, he could see steel tension in her spine as she slipped the key into her purse. He didn’t know it, but she was calibrating, measuring tenderness against the fact that he hadn’t tried to kiss her. Reaching for her, he grazed her back, and that was all. “It’s alright, May.” And that was all. Then he blinked once, twice, and was asleep again.

* * *

 

 

Small Heath had not improved since she’d been last. The air was still smokey and faintly animal scented and the cobbled streets were still covered in the debris of humanity. The poor boy she’d threatened earlier couldn’t look at her without blushing. “Here it is. Tommy said you can call Aunt Pol if you need something.”

May kindly ignored the crack in his voice as he gestured to a door. “Thank you, Finn. Again, I’m so sorry for this morning.”

Somehow he blushed even more before running around to the otherside of the automobile and opening the door for her. She smiled as she took his arm. Unlocking the door revealed a narrow hallway with a faded Virgin Mary smiling benignly at the dusty furniture. “The kitchen’s through there, and the bedroom’s the second door down. There’s a, um, water closet on the landing upstairs.”

“Thank you, Finn.” Hovering awkwardly by the door with his cap in his hands he added, “Tommy said there was something for you in the kitchen.” Then he fled the room. On the scarred kitchen table, she found a box. Under layers of tissue paper was a fitted blue dress and a new slip, with a pinned note. ‘Apologies for turning your dress into bandages. Hope this is a suitable replacement.’ Smiling, she sat at the table, tracing the note with her fingertips.

Something about the sunlight put her into a reverie, and when she came out of it, she had three things to do. She put the dress away in the bedroom and got to work. As she moved around the little kitchen, she found herself nodding her head slightly to music only she could hear. She wouldn’t be caught dead singing to herself, but she could hear it in her head as she did her best to put together a passable meal. There was bread, and there were eggs, and other tempting essentials, but she wasn’t cooking for anyone but herself, and she’d always had great impatience for domestic tasks even in the days when she didn’t have people trying to kill her. So when she came across a can of VanCamp’s pork and beans, she smiled, threw its contents in a pan on low, and got to her second and most substantial task.

Hunched over the kitchen table, squinting a little against the slant of the light, using a spare pencil and some rather yellowed paper she’d found shoved in the upper drawer of the nightstand, she began to write.

_Dear Ian,_

_I still miss you, but for once, I think it’s best you aren’t here. Though you were always a better shot than me, I can’t imagine you using a rifle on anything other than a stag. A pheasant maybe._

_There is so much to say, but none of it I know._

_I suppose if you were here, you’d get to the heart of it quick. We never mince words if not around other people. I appreciate that about you. You know that, right?_

_You’d say something about Tommy, I expect. Of course you’d have told me so. I don’t think you would have stopped me. I don’t think you could have, any more than you’d knock a man off a liferaft. But you would have been right. He’s been like drinking salt water. When it started, I was afraid of the maids, and the distance, and what the others would say. Now I find myself afraid of wider things, worse things. Some of your letters are making more sense now. I should have been more sympathetic when you talked of guilt over the Germans._

_I will stop talking in circles. I am afraid of much, but the worst is already true. Tommy’s death would not kill me; it might have a chance, but I’ve almost touched it and had a polite conversation at the same time. Finding another man wouldn’t kill me; they exist. I told someone that life with him is better than life without, and that will always be true, and I will always_

_She left a blank line. She would figure out how to make that into a readable sentence later. It was not something she could fill in just then._

_The worst moment was waiting in a camp for someone to give me the what I needed to find him. The worst moment was the horse under me taking me away. The worst moment was feeling, for the first time in a long time, like somebody’s wife. I did tell you that when I was little, I never wanted to be a wife? I was scared of parties stopping, and people no longer listening to me, and all the choices, gone. You never made me feel like that. Almost never. Ring on my finger, I was proud to not be your wife._

_He will never marry me, but I’m still in danger of becoming his wife, that much is certain, and I will not sit in some hotel by the phone waiting for a boy so young he can’t grow a beard to tell me whether my life is over or not. I will not do that again._

_This is all to say, I’m sorry. I know what to do now, even if you’re going to hate it, even if it means talking to your father. I don’t have what they have. I don’t have the family. I don’t have the streets. I don’t have the understanding. In the necessary circumstances, I doubt I can shoot properly. But they do hate me for a reason, and that is you, me, where we come from, the land and everything attached._

_Those who have power act. Those who don’t are forced to wait. I will be running for the Eastbourne seat, come this summer’s special election. I will convince your father to fund it. I will win._

_Please don’t hate me. Trust that if you were in those woods, you’d understand._

_Love,_   
_May_

When she put down her pen, she found that the air smelled of smoke. “Oh, goodness.” The top layer of beans and ham was salvageable; the rest of it she bundled away into the bin.

Half a can’s worth of food eaten out of an old tin cup, and eaten with a ghost. And somehow May was almost happy. For the first time in a long while, she knew what came next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next: Ada and Jessie meet, the infamous Rachel makes an appearance, and the plot thickens.


	5. “You’re thinking of dragons, Alfie.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't talk about sex, religion, or politics at the dinner table.”  
> ~An English Proverb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl I'm proud of this one

Ada had had to change. Karl had vomited earlier and she thought she could still smell it, although maybe that was just the memories of his father, coughing through the night and gasping like he was ten feet under water as she’d tried to soothe him. As much as she loved her son, she’d had to leave the house. Normally, she couldn’t stand it when Tommy ordered her around, but she was grateful for this opportunity to do something other than bring Karl toast and wet cloths for his forehead. Polly was practically a nurse after all the time spent looking after the Shelby children, and would no doubt have Karl sleeping in a moment.

A knock brought her out of her thoughts, and she straightened. It was good to be back in the Garrison. The speakeasies were fun, but sometimes she just wanted to order a drink without remembering some ridiculous codeword. Harry slipped a bottle of Shelby gin through the window with two glasses and some lemon he’d probably had to buy specifically for her. “Your guest is here, Miss Shelby.”

“Send her through Harry, thank you.” She almost never got to sit at the head of the table, not with Tommy and Arthur’s ridiculous posturing. Jessie came through the door, her mouth free of lipstick, resolute. “Drink? I have gin, but you’re welcome to anything else.”

“Gin is fine, thank you.” Sitting back and sipping her drink, Ada looked Jessie up and down from across the table. Maybe it was the table, or being up all night with a crying child, but she felt almost drunk. Her heart was beating quickly and she felt a flush crawling up her cheeks. Jessie’s eyes held her own.

“How goes the revolution, Jessie?”

“Very well. The party’s passed a series of worker’s laws to ensure fairer wages and sick leave, which I’m sure your brother disapproves of.” After a thin smile, Jessie gulped her drink down, and Ada quickly poured her another one. She wasn’t Arthur, she didn’t need to beat anyone into telling her the truth with her fists. Not when she could club them over the head with gin. Although speaking of...

She knocked on the glass divider. “Harry, can we get some rum, please?” Turning to Jessie, she explained. “That’s worth a celebration, at least. My brother once told me gin makes you melancholy, but rum is more for fun and fucking. Seems more appropriate, don’t you think?”

Jessie raised an eyebrow. “The fun part. Obviously.”

Another knock and two more glasses with dark liquid appeared. Ada clinked hers against Jessie’s. “To the revolution, hmm?”

Jessie raised her glass. “To fun, maybe?”

Several drinks later, Jessie had become much more animated. “And Thompson, he won’t even listen to me. I single fucking handedly led one of the largest general strikes in Birmingham’s history and he only ever asks me to get the fucking tea. Get your own tea!”

Ada laughed. “Freddie tried to ask me that at a meeting once while I was speaking. I told him if he did that again, I’d cut his balls off while he slept.”

Jessie doubled over with laughter, her arm brushing Ada’s. God, she hadn’t been touched for ages.

“I’d heard of Freddie, but I thought he’d be better than that.”

“He was after I told him not to. Honestly, they’d rather face down every copper in England before they’d listen to a woman speak. Fucking ridiculous that is.” Her arm was still touching Ada’s from across the table. She had such a wonderful laugh. It nearly filled the room and erased the ghosts of John and Freddy and Karl’s cough and Tommy in his hospital bed and those fucking accounts reports no doubt piling on her desk in New York.

“Listen,” Ada said, “If I can give you some advice. Don’t fucking fall in love with a communist. Don’t fuck a communist. They’ll talk about the revolution all fucking day but at the end they’re still just men. ”

Jessie opened her mouth, then shut it firmly.

“And the second you do, all the work you’ve ever done becomes theirs. Just because they’ve fucked you, it somehow means that every idea you’ve ever had came from them. Are we out of gin?”

“No, no there’s still some left. Ada, Ada can I ask you something?” Her hand was now wrapped around Ada’s arm. “Are you still a communist?”

Ada bit her lip. Jessie had somehow come much much closer, but Ada would not back down. She was a fucking Shelby, wasn’t she? Lifting her chin higher, she responded after taking a long sip. “Why do you ask?”

Jessie licked her lips. “I’m just trying to follow some advice.”

“Really?” Before she could say much more they’d collided above the table. Her lipstick would be smudged, Ada thought gleefully, before deepening the kiss. Her hands were wrapped in Jessie’s hair and she’d never ever felt like this before and with a woman but oh! As Jessie’s lips moved from hers to her neck, sucking in in a way she felt to her toes, she gasped. “Wait, wait.”

Jessie’s mouth left her entirely, her eyes wide with worry. There was Tommy but that seemed a million miles away and Jessie was here, right here, warm and soft. “Fuck it,” said Ada. She brought her mouth back to Jessie’s.

 

 

 

Ada woke up smiling in a small flat, with Jessie’s warm body pressed against hers. Trying not to shift her too much as she lifted the covers, Ada sat on the corner of the bed. She began pulling on her stockings. A hand on the small of her back made her turn.

“Where are you going?” Jessie looked especially small bedrumpled and wrapped only in a quilt.

“Tommy’s in the hospital. He was shot and visiting hours start in twenty minutes. Can you lace me up?”

Jessie sat up, wrapping her arms around herself. “He was shot?”

For a second, Ada had somehow managed to forget that Jessie had...had some sort of connection to her brother. That had been a nice moment. But now, well. “One shot to the arm, one to the stomach. He’ll be alright. Doctor’s say it’s just down to rest, and we’ll all take turns bullying him into sleep.” Jessie looked all kinds of queasy and fuck, at the soul of it Ada was the devil here, wasn’t she? Jessie had been in love once and devoted her life to the people ever since—not The People, as in speeches, but the people as in each individual grimy-faced, unkind, funny, sad, or angry person that came to her door. It had taken Ada less than an hour to turn all that on its head.

There was, of course, an alternative. Which was worse. “Oh God, I haven’t given you Karl’s flu, have I?” She crawled back into bed and pressed her hand to Jessie’s forehead. “I think you’re alright. It wouldn’t be, anyways. The flu takes longer than that to spread.”

Jessie tried to smile up at her, and it was the brightest, saddest thing. Ada just wanted to kiss that expression off her face, but she knew that might not be an option. So. “What’s wrong?”

“Did Tommy send you to talk to me?”

“He only said to find out what you knew about the strike. Obviously, he didn’t mean...to drink with you. But it’s all right. Jessie, really.” She cupped Jessie’s face in her hands and kissed her. That expression only deepened, but Jessie held her wrists there, so at least she knew neither of them wanted to leave. “It’s okay. Look, Tommy’s not—d’you know James Flanagan? From Kentish Town?”

“Yes,” Jessie managed to say. “Yes, of course.”

“Tommy met him. Tommy knows. It’s alright. And even if—Jessie, look at me. Even if he did mind it, it’s all right. You could kiss a thousand girls and you’d still be one of the best—”

Now Jessie was really crying. “Oh, darling. Come here.” Ada gathered her up in her arms, and Jessie just pressed her wet face to Ada’s neck and cried. “It’s alright. It’s alright, let it out. There it is, darling, it’s alright. Shh.”

It was a long time, or seemed like a long time, just rocking her back and forth, but finally Jessie lifted her head and tried to wipe her eyes. “Here, here.” Ada dove into her bag—how it had gotten flung to the top of the wardrobe, she didn’t remember—and pulled out a handkerchief.

“Sorry,” Jessie murmured, wiping her nose.

“You can talk about it, you know,” Ada said. “Fuck Tommy, fuck the rest of them. You know I wouldn’t tell.” She was giving Jessie a little space to get herself sorted, but she didn’t stop running her fingers through Jessie’s dark hair.

“I know you wouldn’t. I know.” She gave Ada her best brave, wet smile.

“So it’s alright, let’s just talk.”

Jessie looked up at her, all old smudged lipstick and fresh eyes and tender hope, and learned how to lie. “I’ve never done this before,” she said, which was true, and also: “I don’t want to hurt anyone, I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”

“And no-one has.”

“But they have and Tommy’s in the hospital and it’s all my fault!” This came tumbling out in a rush of words capped off with a sob.

Ada stiffened. “How?”

The story came out in fits and spurts. The strike. The rage. The angry men and her brother above them all, impassable and a marble figurehead. “And he was never going to get hurt, I swear it. Ada, we just wanted to show him we were serious.” Itchy trigger fingers and young men trying to make a name for themselves. And, the situation they finally found themselves in where she’d just spent the night with the woman who could have gotten her brother killed.

“Fuck.” Ada exhaled. She scrambled through her purse for a cigarette, lighting it. “How were you going to kidnap a Peaky fucking Blinder and get away with it? He’d have come for your heads. He’s a capitalist, but he’s not a fucking Rockefeller.”

“I—”   
Ada shook her head, and put on her dress. “I need to think about this. Don’t try to kill any more of my fucking brothers.”

 

 

  
They’d taken the morphine away and Tommy was smoking like it was his job. No wonder then, when Ada burst in with smudged makeup and hair standing up he couldn’t muster more than a tense, “What?”

“The communists. It was them. A kidnapping that got out of hand.”

Tommy nodded one of his solemn fucking guillotine nods and reached for the telephone.

“Tommy. Tommy, wait.” She grabbed desperately at his hands. “Jessie Eden had nothing to do with this alright? It was these men, I have their names—”  
  
“Ada, no. You know how it is. She’s the leader, and if I let just anyone fuck with us the line will stretch to hell and back. We need to create an example—”

“Tommy if you hurt her, it’ll just get worse. Punish the ones responsible and that’s all. Please.”

“Ada—”  
  
“Tommy. Trust me.”

“I’ve been fucking shot, Ada!”

“Tommy, please. I know, You can fucking crucify all the men in Birmingham. Just..not her. No one will think anything of it, but please.”

“She’s a fucking troublemaker, Ada. And what has she done to get you here, pleading for her life?”

“She’s me, Tommy. She’s just trying to help people. Isn’t that what you wanted to do, once?”

Tommy sighed. “Jesus, Ada. No. It’ll all just fucking collapse.” Ada stood from where she’d been crumpled at his bedside.

“Fine. Then no fucking telephone.” Yanking the cord from the wall, she strode out to the hallway where Isaiah stood trying not to look hungover.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s got a fever and he’s delirious.” She walked out the door, leaving the phone on a nurse’s desk on her way out.

Tommy lay there for a minute, thinking, Is it the withdrawal or was that real? Upon reaching for the telephone and finding that it was, in fact, real, he called, “Isaiah?”

Isaiah poked his head in. “Yes, Tommy?”

“She told you I had a fever?”

“Yes.” He looked complexly embarrassed—for himself, for Ada, for Tommy. All in their own way.

“Then don’t you think I should be seen by a nurse? Have my temperature taken?”

“You...don’t seem delirious.”

Tommy gritted his teeth and put as sharp a hold on his patience as he possibly could. “Stands to reason that I should get my telephone back, then, eh?”

Now, the logic followed, even in Isaiah’s pained and cluttered mind. But the glimmer in Tommy’s eye said that someone was going to die, and given what he knew of Tommy and Ada, if Ada opposed it, Isaiah wasn’t quite sure he supported it. “You are looking a bit...tired.”

“Isaiah…”

“Perhaps you should see a nurse, first,” Isaiah managed to get out in one last desperate burst of courage. Then he ran out of the room, presumably to get said nurse.

Jesus Fucking Christ, and all his little angels, and all his little seraphim, and all the demons down below. If Tommy could not get Isaiah Jesus—Isaiah Jesus—who could not legally serve alcohol in the Garrison just yet, who Tommy distinctly remembered pissing on his best Sunday trousers while Tommy was holding him in church—If Tommy could not get Isaiah to fucking hand him a telephone, matters were very fucking dire indeed.

Right. He had to deal with Jessie Eden first. He knew if he didn’t, he’d fucking avoid it, put it off, let Ada work him with her sad eyes and her good heart, and ruin it all. He had never had anyone killed that he’d fucked before, but nobody that he’d fucked had tried to kill him before, either. (Tatiana? He considered that a brief moment. No, Tatiana didn’t count.)

A nurse came in, but it wasn’t the nurse he wanted. No, what happened to the morning’s nurse? She had been young and not exactly scared, but curious and certainly not resistant to anything. This nurse was definitely older than sixty and looked like she’d been through three wars.

“The young man says you have a fever, Mr. Shelby?” She clearly didn’t believe it any more than Isaiah did.

“He’s mistaken. Mrs...?”

“Cochran.”

“Mrs. Cochran, could you please hand me that telephone? I’ve an urgent call to make.”

 _I did not survive the battlefield to play fetch for an upstart thief with a bad haircut,_ her face said. “Certainly,” her mouth said.

“I’d get it myself, but I’ve been advised not to stir out of bed.”

“Yes, I think that would be best for you,” she said dryly, putting the telephone down on the side table. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Shelby?”

“Thank you, no,” he said. Jesus, she’d be a better Peaky Blinder than Isaiah. Wouldn’t that be something.

The withdrawal was scattering his mind. _Hold it together. Gauge the damage. Fix what can be fixed. Destroy anything that will make it happen again._ He’d gotten through far worse than a jaunt through the forest and a couple fucking bullets, and he’d do it again and again. Probably till he died. Cheerful thought. _Fucking focus._

“Polly?” Fight or no fight, Polly was always the first call. “It’s Jessie Eden. Yes, I—yes. We don’t know who she collaborated with, but it’s still not the Italians, and given Alfie, I wouldn’t say it’s the Jews either. Someone needs to go pick her up, not publicly. We can’t have the workers up in arms; it has to be quiet, and when it’s done, it has to be clear what the cause was.”

“I’ll get her myself,” said Polly. “What else?”

“Ada’s trying to protect her.”

“Why?”

“Some...fucking Communist kinship.” A flicker in the back of his mind suggested another possibility, but he dismissed it. “Just hurry. And get Finn to bring me the papers and Israel. We’ve missed something, and it’s two to one we’ve missed something in that new law. I need to know the damage.”

“All right. Will you stop fucking women whose only business is your business? No, don’t answer. I know. Take a nap before the lawyer arrives, we’ve got it. And Tommy?”

Obstinate silence. Then: “What?”

“Stop smoking.”

Cigarette in his hand: “I wasn’t—”

She had hung up.

 

 

 

Across Birmingham, Jessie Eden had also hung up the telephone. Ada had called her, voice still tight, and told her to get out now. She sighed, thought about it, and picked up the phone once more. “Hello, could I get Alfie Solomons of Camden, please?”

“Certainly. One moment please.”

“Ello?”

“Hiya Alfie, it’s me.”

“Rachel! Shalom!”

 

 

 

May stretched on the narrow twin bed before getting up and sliding her new dress on. It fit perfectly, of course. Tommy had probably measured her in her sleep. She patted the envelope still sitting on the kitchen table and had begun to measure out water for tea when she heard a key in the door. “Tommy?”

“Who the fuck are you?” There was a woman standing in the entryway.

“Tommy Shelby sent me here.”

The woman in the fur coat looked her up and down.

“You’re the posh one, yeah? The one with..horses.” She walked in. “Jesus, I just wanted one fucking minute of peace.”

“I can go.”

The woman laughed before pouring the now boiling kettle over a mug. “You, out on those streets? You’d be eaten alive.”

“I’m sorry, remind me of your name?”

“Ada. Thorne. Nee Shelby.”

“Oh.”

“Jesus, he’s done you up real nice. I’d been wondering why he called me last night, asking about a dress shop.”

“I really don’t mean to intrude—”

“No, no it’s fine. How is my brother lately? He never seems to have time to call.”

“Tommy doesn’t strike me as particularly...communicative.”

“Well. I just came here to use the telephone so if you don’t mind.”

She stepped over to the wall. “Jessie Eden, please.” The anxiety in the pause was so palpable that May could almost feel it herself. And then: “Are you alright? You have a plan? I—I’m glad. Alright. Goodbye.”

After that terse display, May gingerly came closer. “I care about him too, you know?”

“I’m sure you think you do.”

May bit back her first reply, and then looked at Ada, really looked at her. Lipstick gone but eyeliner still mostly there, tired, rumpled, calling a woman named Jessie Eden somewhat uncertainly, and underestimating her.

Good, May decided. The Shelbys were not a welcoming clan, and not for the first time, May felt sympathy for Grace, in all her blonde, Protestant, Irish difference. (Yes, blonde. She had seen a picture. What of it?) The only way into the Shelbys was not through one of them—look at Esme, out in the woods, somehow lighter and more powerful than when May had first met her despite widowhood and the loss of that big house. The only way any of it would work is if she let go of all that. Allow this dislike, perhaps even cultivate it, to a controlled extent. In this way, Tommy’s family was not at all unlike her own. They would not like her, but she could make them respect her.

The kettle began to whistle.

May was faster. “No, let me,” she said, waving Ada off and going to pour two mugfuls. “Cream? Sugar?”

Ada just took the mug from her hand and drank half of it in one scalding go.

“Right.” May handed over the other one and stepped back. The time was good for thinking, if she let herself wear that dress and exist in that room without guilt. Whether it was due to the sleep or her renewed intent, she was able to do it. She went through Ada, piece by piece, and found an interesting mix of style that could best be described as a hybrid. That dress had origins closer to jazz than one would expect of Birmingham or even London fashion; that bracelet was Parisian.

So: either a cosmopolitan woman, or one who ran in those circles. A traveler, a bit, but a mother too, she knew, so constrained most likely in Birmingham to some extent. Quite clever. Quite done with her.

May decided a retreat was in order. Temporary. Leave it to the men to butt heads and bruise egos. There was no need for her to prove anything, and the only point she could prove, right now, had been made for her by quite possibly the most beautiful deep blue dress in the city. So.

“I think I’ll catch up on some reading,” she said, picking up a newspaper from the kitchen counter without checking to see which it was, and drifting into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

Ada cleared her throat from the hallway. “I’ll be going to the hospital soon. My aunt will probably leave after eleven, and my brothers are busy. In case you wanted to know.” From behind the thin door, she heard a rustle of paper and a voice.

“Thank you.”

Jesus, those doors were thin. Really made her wonder how discreet her and Freddie had actually been and what Jessie’s neighbors were thinking. Jessie. Fuck. She’d be okay. She would. Grabbing her purse from the table where she’d left it, she walked out onto the street. It was time to go home, for a moment. See Karl. Think.

She took a cab to the house. It was nice, not having to pay, but she’d left a ten pound note on the seat in the hopes he wouldn’t assume it was Shelby money.

“Pol?” She called, after locking the door behind her.

“Mum?”

“Hello sweetheart, how are you feeling?”

Karl shifted in the bedsheets. His color was better, although he still looked sick. Her heart twisted in her chest.

“I feel better. Aunt Polly made me eat garlic and honey and it was awful but she made me have it anyway.”

Ada smiled. “She did that when I was sick too. It worked though, didn’t it?” Smoothing his hair back she was grateful to find his skin was only slightly warm. “Where is Aunt Pol?”

“She said she had some business to take care of. Where were you last night, mum? I had a dream about these bears and I went to tell you but you weren’t here.”

“I’m sorry, my love. I had some work to do. You can tell me about the bears now, if you’d like?”

Karl yawned. “Okay, well, I was in the woods with Millie and her friend Pietro when we went to visit but then it was dark all of a sudden and there were these bears but they were very friendly and we could ride them but” he yawned again “Millie didn’t want to, but—”

“Shh, sweetheart. Just rest.” Within a moment, he was dead asleep in the way only children could really be, unburdened and easy. She pressed a kiss onto his forehead. Maybe she shouldn’t go to the hospital. Tommy would be awful no doubt, and she couldn’t change his mind. Jessie was safe. Where the fuck was Pol, though?

 

 

 

By the time Jessie reached the corner store at the very edge of Camden, she had, as per her instructions, randomly changed cabs three times. The young man who picked her up there, didn’t recognize her at first. She spotted him at once, though, all gangly, made almost entirely, it seemed, of limbs. “A mop” Alfie had called him, and it wasn’t inaccurate.

“Hello, Ollie.” He looked alarmed. “It’s all right, I’m Rachel.”

“Oh! Oh, yes. Of course. Of course.” He was overcompensating now, but she pretended not to notice, just handed over her bag and got into the car before he had the chance to open it for her.  
She leaned on the window, winter turning the glass cold against her cheek. At first, she was only watching the lamps being lit, one by one, and the gold glow they strung along the streets. But then, as the car made its way into the heart of Camden, she began to recognize things. At first, it was little; a grocer’s, a doctor’s...but then there was more. She smiled.

“I was working in that school when they announced armistice, did you know that, Ollie?”

“Ah, no, ma’am.” He sounded a little stiff. Perhaps Alfie had told him nothing about her. In fact, that was the more likely option, wasn’t it?

“Where were you when they announced armistice, do you remember?”

“Ah...in classes, ma’am.”

How funny! But of course he was right. That was seven years ago, and look at him—couldn’t be more than three years into being a man. Only the war still seemed so fresh to her. “Did I...teach you?” That would explain the awkwardness, but she hoped she was wrong. It seemed cruelly early to be forgetting names. And an accidental insult to poor Ollie.

“No, ma’am. My mum had moved to Croydon at the time.”

“Did you like it there?”

“No...not particularly.”

She took pity on him—or rather made it easy on both of them—and fell silent, reliving the streets in silence. As they turned from Prince of Wales Road to Malden, though, something clicked. “Oh, Jesus.” She leaned forward in her seat a little, peering through the windshield. “Ollie?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The place you’re taking me. Is it on Hawley, by any chance?”

He stiffened. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Is it the place above the old bakery?”

“I don’t believe there’s a bakery on Hawley anymore, ma’am.”

“Ollie.”

“It is above a dress shop that once used to be a bakery, yes ma’am.”

“Ollie, stop the car.”

Miraculously, he did exactly as he was told, pulling over to the side of the road. He stared straight ahead the whole time, though, even once the car was parked.

“Am I being kidnapped?”

“No, ma’am. Alfie said to take you anywhere you like. Anywhere within Camden Town is safe. Kentish Town is all right. Best if you stay in those areas. But he would like to say hello. If you’re not too tired, that is.” It was far too careful a speech, in both words and delivery, to not be practiced.

“So this is what it’s come down to. The flat above the bakery on Hawley. It’s fucking...1926. What decade does he think we’re in?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question, ma’am.”

“It’s all right, Ollie. Never mind.”

As Jessie sat there, chewing her bottom lip, Ollie glanced over.

“If I may say something, ma’am? I think you should go see him. But please don’t tell him I said that.”

“Mum’s the word.” She sighed. “All right. Fuck it. Take me there.”

It took them less than five minutes. Underneath the cheerful new green paint and the flourishes of fabric in the window, the shop that had once been a bakery looked the same as it always had, with its distinctive little striped awnings and two flower boxes. She was gripped with an irrational urge to dig through the left flower box, almost sure that she’d find a clutch of nine marbles nestled in the dirt under the geraniums.

“Thank you, Ollie,” she said instead, climbing out of the car and allowing him to hand her her bag. Well, she’d done the best she could. He was only marginally less stiff and awkward than when first they’d met, but he seemed like a good kid. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He gave her a sort of little nod.

Even if the new dress shop practically sparkled with care, the door to the flat up above still retained its old worn and scratched appearance, so she was surprised when she turned its handle and it glided open with ease, hinges obviously well-oiled. She closed the door behind her and flipped on the lights.

“Jesus, Alfie.” She touched the wallpaper, an intricate pattern of white on peach, and felt her chest constrict. “On today of all the days.” But it was beautiful, this. She had been dreading some narrow, dusty, dark place, and this was gorgeous in its quiet way, with black and white pictures on the landing.

Front and center, the class of ’95, a much larger class than usual, with all the flotsam and jetsam finally scooped up by a friendly hand and deposited on the steps of Camden’s unofficial school for Jewish children. Not the most well-funded school, she thought, in the world—but look at those grubby, happy faces. There she was, and Alfie, side by side. And Esther, there, two rows back.

She pushed open the door silently, and the smell of food, savory and warm, washed over her. “Jesus,” she said to herself, quietly, and then, as she set down her bag by the door: “I almost didn’t come.”

“Fuck!” There was a clatter from the kitchen. More quietly: “Fucking…” Louder now: “Hello, Rachel. Just give it a minute, I didn’t think you’d get here so quick. Ollie does get lost on occasion, not being a Camden Town boy and all. But he’s a good lad. A good lad. Just—”

“Take all the time you need,” she said, unlooping the scarf from her neck and making her way through the tiny sitting room. The photos alone…oh, and look, there was his battalion. He looked so young in a way that hadn’t struck her even with their school picture. “Do you live here?”

“No, no. I’m the fucking boss, if you haven’t heard. Bosses aren’t supposed to live in tiny flats, we’re supposed to live in deep caves and sleep on hoards of gold and eat peasants.”

“You’re thinking of dragons, Alfie.”

“Well, I’m supposed to live in a place as big as a fucking wedding cake. So I do.”

When she turned around, he was at the little wooden table with a towel thrown over his shoulder, setting down a dish. They both froze. “Fucking hell, Alfie.”

He set the dish down and scratched his beard. “It’s only psoriasis, mate. Nothing deadly.”

“That’s not...did you do all this?” There must have been five dishes on that table.

“You think I was gonna let a cook in here? They’re fucking gossips, every last one of ‘em. And my mate nearly got killed by his cook once. I could’ve warned him, though. It was a fucking Italian.” She was still staring. “Anyways you need the leftovers if you’re going to hide a couple days in here. Come on, sit down.”

She settled into her chair as Alfie poured her a glass.

“Cheers, mate.” As they drank, Jessie could feel him sizing her up, and was quite openly doing the same to him. “You still masterminding riots, then, innit?”

“Are you still masterminding dick measuring contests with all the London gangsters?”

“What’s your codename now, Queen of the Reds?”

“Mm, I’d better not tell you, Alfie. You might have interests in one of the factories.”

He considered this a moment, then: “Have some fucking fish.”

She held out her plate for it, and now she was smiling. “This is lovely, thank you. So, who lives here, if you don’t?”

“I bought it. Back in 1923.”

All right. “And what have you been doing?”

“Mm, took a little vacation the other day, didn’t I?”

“Ooh. Where to, Italy?”

“The woods.”

Mouth half-full of fish, she laughed. “And how was that for you?”

“Well, I had a nice ride, a nice little row down the river, some conversation, and I got fucking shot...and who have you been doing?”

“Alfie.”

“I’m happy for you, mate, I really am. Is she tall?”

She couldn’t stop laughing with him, or at him, or both. “What kind of a bizarre question is that?”

“You like tall women!”

Rachel shook her head, laughing so hard she couldn’t get in a reply.

“It’s fucking certifiable!”

“That was one girl, and one time, and—”

“—she was a fucking giraffe! G-d made His chosen people short for a fucking reason, mate, we don’t bash our foreheads on doorframes!”

He loved this, the way she still grinned wide and toothy, like everyone did before they grew up and knew what embarrassment was.

“She was a nice girl,” said Rachel. “And very energetic.”

“Fucking hell.” He shook his head. “So where’d you meet this one?”

“Work.”

For a moment, she couldn’t read him, and then he said, “Oh no. No, no, no. Not the one-word fucking answer from you. I ask you about a girl and all you have to say is ‘work’? Are you Rachel Abner? Now I don’t fucking think so.”

“Here comes the Inquisition. You know what? I give up. I give up, Inspector: she’s not tall.”

“Are you going to live with her?”

“She has a child.”

“So be a nanny.”

“Jesus, Alfie! Does it never occur to you that things are complicated?”

“I do find that most complicated things can be fixed.”

“With a gun? That doesn’t apply here. I think guns have made it worse, actually.”

“Come on, Rachel. She’s energetic. What’s the problem?”

How far into the truth could she go? She sipped her wine to buy some time. “I...may have...mmm...become involved with her brother. Previously”

Alfie considered this a moment, then refilled her glass.

 

 

 

Deep into the third dish, several glasses of wine, and much laughter later, Alfie pushed aside his plate with an air of finality.

“God, really, Alfie? Look at this!” She uncovered the fifth dish. “There’s still potatoes! What would Mrs. Bernard say? ‘Potatoes are for children, not for bins.’” Then she looked at his face. “Oh fuck. What is it?”

“Well, see, you’ve kind of stolen my question there, mate. You’re all twisted up about something.” She started to protest, but he cut in. “No no no—You wanted to say it since you got in the door, so all right. Look, my plate’s to the side, it’s not the dinner table any more. We’ve had some wine, I won’t shout. What is it, money troubles? Work troubles? Woman troubles? I know you’ve got woman troubles.” He tilted his head just so, and anyone else would’ve thought him infinitely wise, infinitely all-knowing, but this was Rachel and she knew better. “You finally going to let me have at those bastards what burnt your flat the last time?”

A half-smile. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

She had wanted to avoid this. There had been laughter, and there had been wine, and they could end the night like they had the last and only other time she’d needed his help, with a genial goodbye. But if this had been stewing for who knew how many years…best get it all out now. They could survive it, however awful it was. She put her plate to the side, too. “What do you think it is, Alfie?”

“What is this, class all over again? I’m the one asking the fucking question here.”

“I’m not on trial, you’re not a barrister. What do you think it is, Alfie?”

He spread his hands wide. “I genuinely don’t fucking know!”

Under all her deep affection rose the old endless impatience for his stubbornness, his feigned ignorance, his domineering talk, his entire charade. “Let me put this all together, then. Because it is obvious, even for you.” And she found herself talking with her hands now too, almost rising from her seat. “It has been more than a decade since I said I wouldn’t marry you. A long time, but you knew I wouldn’t forget this place. How many times did we stop by the bakery downstairs to look at the rolls on the way to school. How many times did you say you were going to run the place? And buy the flat on top? And we were going to wake up every morning to the smell of—“

“You think I’m trying to fucking marry you?” He really was incredulous. The wide eyes, the hands, the everything. “I have fucked men! I almost fucked another one just last week!”

“And I’ve fucked women, and so have you, and that’s incredibly besides the fucking point! Alfie—”

“You think I’m trying to marry you!”

“Maybe not marry, maybe not consciously, but subconsciously—“

“Sub—this is why you shouldn’t go to fucking university.”

“Women—“

“Not women, just you!”

“Alfie, there are candles on the table.” She picked one up by the base and brandished it at him. “ _Candles_ , Alfie. Look at this place.”

“I wanted it to be fucking nice!”

“Why did you want it to be fucking nice?”

“Was I supposed to make it a fucking pit?”

“Why did you want it to be nice?”

_“You can come home!”_

Candlestick still in hand, mouth pursed, she paused, almost like a moving picture with a nick in the tape, except that her dark intelligent eyes were working. Hard.

“Rachel—“ He leaned forward, elbows on table, eyes lit twice over, inside and out. “It’s all here. Freedom. Not just freedom, not just words on paper, things. Things you can touch. Good wages, a good school for the kids, some bread for Mische, even though he’s a fucking drunk. Locks on the doors that don’t get broken. Respect. Everything you want is here. Is there blood? Fuck yes, there’s blood. But that’s what I needed to build it. That’s what they wanted from us. You don’t like it, come and change it. I will build it with you. You’re fucking obsessed with bringing down their government, has it ever occurred to you that you should make your own?”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re right, it’s not. It’s better. And I know you always called me a sentimentalist, but it’s not just because we’re fucking friends this time. Rachel, you know I think your Communists are stupid but I know you’re the fucking queen of them all, and that’s nothing small. The General Strike—I know you were there. More than there. You held them together. We need to be together. The boys that used to laugh at me for not knowing Hebrew the first class in, now some of them have businesses in other neighborhoods. I saw one at the races last month and he pretended he didn’t fucking know me. They don’t fucking see what I see. They don’t smell the danger. I know you don’t think I see anything outside Camden, but I’m smart enough to pick up a paper once a week when it comes to fascists. They’re still here.”

“Come on, Alfie, hardly. The General Strike—“

“It didn’t stop them. I’m fucking glad that you embarrassed the shit out of those worthless motherfuckers, but if being wrong alone was enough to perish a fascist, the morgues would fucking overflow! And now they’re trying to go fucking global!”

“Alfie!”

“What?” He was almost breathing fast, he had said it all so quick. And here she came, quiet and steel. And slow.

“Not everything I want is here.” Her brown eyes held his steadily. “Not everyone I want is here. I can’t be the woman you want me to be.”

“Rachel. Women? We’re…fifty percent fucking women here, same as everywhere else, and you can have them. Or whoever it is. You can bring her here. You can live here, in this flat. You can have your giraffe woman, or your lipstick woman. Or Hannah. Don’t—fucking look at me like that, if I’d known you were going to take dinner here as a proposal, I’d have taken you to the Savoy as a joke instead. In fact I might still do it. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not…” He swallowed, and matched her voice, quiet for quiet. “Rachel, everything you want is here.”

“Alfie, the stupid communists? And the stupid socialists? And the stupid factory workers?”

“Who would never accept you if you were Rachel Abner?”

“Some of them wouldn’t care.”

“Yeah, and some of them would.”

“Alfie. They’re not all here. I’d have to leave them behind.”

“For—“

“Alfie, listen. Does Jason deserve a school less than Jacob? Does Emily deserve a midwife less than Esther? Tell me honestly, what’s the difference?”

“The difference is, they won’t eventually try to kill you!”

“Like you haven’t cut a Jew!”

_“I fucking haven’t!”_

They were both on their feet, and her pulse thundered. She could see exactly the moment hope left the room, as if she had reached inside him and turned off the light. He sat back down. Wiped his mouth with a napkin, needlessly.

“I may have shot one,” he said. “Never mind.”

“Alfie...”

“Put down that candle, you’ll get hot wax all over your hand.”

“Alfie.”

“Put down the fucking candle, Rachel.” He got to his feet heavily. “I need to check the oven.”

She sat there, and looked at the photos all round her, and said a prayer. Then she got up and cleared the dishes. “Leave it, leave it,” she said, stacking them in the sink. “I’ll do them later. It helps me think.”

“All right.” He went to the door, put on his hat. “Fuck, I almost forgot.” He shuffled into the kitchen and pulled out a pan containing half a dozen morning rolls studded with raisins. His hat’s brim was pulled low, he was looking at the pan. “People think I don’t know how to bake.”

“They’re perfect.” She set them on the countertop, touched his arm.

“Goodnight, Rachel.”

“Goodnight, Alfie.”

And then he was gone.


	6. “The important thing is that the family stays together."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> odds & ends: the Peaky boys take care of some business. the fallout from Jessie continues. also, kids.

Ada had fallen asleep next to Karl, her body curled protectively around his, when Polly came home. 

“Ada Rose Shelby.” 

She woke with a start, almost ready to defend the watered down bottle of whiskey under her pillow or the mud on her skirt when she remembered she no longer lived with Polly, and in fact, that she was twenty-six years old and didn’t have to justify herself to anyone. 

“Hello, Pol. Do you want a cup of tea?” 

“Where the fuck is Jessie Eden? And don’t tell me lies, I’ve been traipsing around to every boarding house in Birmingham and I am in no mood.” Ada gently stood, straightening the covers around Karl. 

“Let him sleep. I’ll make you a cup of tea.” 

Polly stormed to the kitchen, slamming cupboards open. “I don’t need this. Not after Tommy getting shot and John gone and Arthur—well actually, he seems to be alright for now, but God only knows how long that’ll last and now I have a missing communist and my niece who I raised and fed and kept safe will not fucking tell me anything.” 

“Pol. I don’t know where she is.” 

“Did you see her last night, or was that a different Red you were drinking with at the Garrison?” 

“I saw her last night. I walked her home, and fell asleep at the old house. She wasn’t responsible for shooting Tommy. She shouldn’t be punished for it.” 

Polly scoffed. The kettle had boiled, and Ada carefully poured. 

“I’m sorry I left you with Karl last night,” she said. 

“Oh, don’t be. After you and your brothers, I could probably withstand a battalion of sick little boys. And he’s a sweet one, Ada.” 

They both smiled. 

“How’s Tommy?” Ada said.

“He’s gone to spare. The nurse is apparently tough as nails and won’t give him more morphine.” 

“I’ll see him when he’s a bit calmer.” 

They sat in silence for a minute, broken only by Karl coughing in his sleep. 

“I know it’s hard. With Freddie. But he’ll be alright, Ada.” 

She smiled sadly, and Polly grabbed her cup. “Let’s take a look then, hmm?” 

Ada placed her hands around the cup. 

“Concentrate on your heart’s desire.” said Polly, in that mock serious voice she used when rich ladies stumbled into her parlor looking for reassurance or a story to scandalize their friends with. It was so quiet, suddenly, and between her heartbeats all she could see or hear or taste was Jessie. Pol took the cup back, the rattle against the saucer enough to bring Ada back to her childhood kitchen. One of Polly’s thin eyebrows raised as she studied the cup. 

“Hmm. A broken journey, so you’ll be staying here a while longer. Good health for Karl. And who is J?” 

Ada flushed. “No one.” Polly’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Big heart right next to it. James? Jacob? Jack? Johnny Dogs?” 

“I’m going to check on Karl, I think I heard him wake up.” 

“You can’t hide from the leaves, Ada!” 

“All right, all right! Johnny Dogs.”

“Have you even seen him in the last month?”

“Not since Christmas, but absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Have you been going to those communist meetings again?”

“What? No, they wouldn’t have me now even if I dressed in sackcloth and ashes. Do you have something against Johnny Dogs, Poll? I mean, implying you’d rather have a communist for an in-law is pretty cruel for you.”

“Does he make you happy?”

Ada considered this. “Yes.”

“Well, use a fucking rubber and be prepared for Tommy to shout.”

“Always, Polly. Always.”

 

Later, after checking on Karl, who was awake and content with a stack of comics he’d wheedled from Finn, Ada sat in Polly’s guest bedroom smoking idly. She knew Tommy was like a dog with a bone when he’d got it in his head he’d been disrespected. After having her apartment destroyed, she’d have thought Jessie would too. But this wasn’t a situation where keeping a pistol under your pillow would suffice. (Jessie had thought she was being subtle when she’d tossed it in a bedside drawer before pulling Ada to the bed.) As she flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette and contemplated another one, there was  a timid knock on the door. “Telephone for you, Mrs. Thorne.” 

“Thank you, Claire.” She paused. “Hello? Have you been crying? Are you hurt? Where are you?” 

Polly hesitated from the door to the study. 

“Where are you? No, I’m coming. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Alright.” 

The pause was loaded and Polly was nearly afraid to breathe. 

“I’ll be there tonight.” 

Then, the click of heels down the hall. 

“Polly? There you are.” Ada was pulling on a coat. “I have to go to London tonight. There’s a problem with a friend. Can you look after Karl for just a little longer?” 

Polly nodded from where she’d sat and grabbed a newspaper to look busy. “Of course love. Get a taxi to the station, alright? It’s getting dark.” 

Ada left her with a lipstick mark on her cheek before bustling up the stairs to Karl. Polly sighed, grasped the cross at her neck, then stood, picking up the telephone. 

“Tommy. If you get your men to follow Ada, you’ll find Jessie Eden.” Still clutching her cross, she nodded. “Tommy don’t...don’t do anything rash.” The line went dead, but she still held onto the phone, eyes shut and swaying in the hallway.  

 

Tommy sighed. What had Jessie Eden done to inspire such sympathy from his female relatives? Right. Pushing the covers to his feet, he stood, wincing. This had to come from him. A message. He pulled on his pants, shirt, gun, and coat, then lit a cigarette. No more fucking incompetence. Isaiah was still in the hallway, this time chatting up a pretty nurse. “Tommy? Where are you going?” 

“Business, Isaiah. It’s always fucking business.” Nurse Cochran stood from the nurse’s station. 

“Mr. Shelby, you need to get to bed.” Pushing his coat aside and revealing his gun, he didn’t break his stride, and was soon halfway to the station. 

 

By then, he could no longer ignore the pain, not even after the briefest of cigarette pauses. He didn’t have a flask on him, of course. Amateur mistake. As he stood in the street, thinking it through and wishing he’d brought at least Arthur with him, another gun hand and discreet, a car rolled up beside him. 

“Can I give you a ride, Mr. Shelby?”

“Where are you headed, Francis?”

“Anywhere you like.”

Tommy swung inside. “Take me to the station.”

As Francis settled into a friendly and animated monologue about some moving picture he had seen in the last weekend, apparently a fantastic spectacle with real singing and actors that actually talked instead of captions, an American thing, Tommy tried to relax in his seat and thought on what could possibly have gone wrong. That Ada had gone back to her old ideological habits was not an easily dismissable idea; but it ultimately worked not at all with any of her actions even in the past few days, aside from shielding Jessie. Clearly there was a connection there; the way she spoke about her, almost as if she was trying to make Tommy understand by translating Jessie as herself, was the best hint that he had. That and something in Polly’s voice was striking distant chords in his memory. This chimed with another time, another problem, where—Freddie Thorne, yes. His mind swerved but he brought it back. No. Think about this reasonably. If the analogy fit, then it would stand to reason that Jessie Eden was the Freddie in this situation. Yes? Yes. And all the other pieces just the same. And if all the other parts were just the same, would the results be what they currently were?

“Sir? Sir!”

“What’s the matter, Francis?” He looked round. The car had stopped. Ah, good. He went to swing out the door.

“You’re bleeding!” 

“Thanks for the ride, Francis. I’ll pay you back.”

“Anything for you, Mr. Shelby! But your shirt will get a stain.”

“Have a good day now.” Tommy shut the door behind him with an air of finality, then strode through the station, ignoring the onlookers, some of whom recognized him, some of whom saw blood, and all of whom were more than a little disturbed by his pale eyes.

The results from Freddie had been a baby and a marriage. The results from Jessie had been  _ this.  _ It was a fucking difference, and over it all rose the specter of something worse than even indifference to his wounds: the possibility that Ada had wanted them.

No. Not rational. Was it? Why? Why wouldn’t it be? Because Ada loved him, they grew up together. Yes, but there were plenty of people who had grown up with him that had tried to kill him. And how much had he seen her recently, and how much had he cost her, and how much had she hidden? With Jessie as his proof it seemed to rip off the edges of the known and cast him into some other universe. Fuck.

He saw her red hat and paused. Whatever came next, it could not be about that. It could not be about trusting or not trusting Ada, who had come to him with nightmares and made them all breakfast when Mother was gone to work. It must be only about Ada, about whom he had a collection of facts, and from whom he needed certain things to keep the Shelby universe turning. That was all it was.

He quickened his stride and reached her in minutes. “Hello, Ada.” They were walking side-by-side now quite normally, and he plucked the ticket out of her hand. “Going to London, is it?”

“Jesus, Tommy.” Now they the only ones standing as the train barrelled towards the station, a tiny island in a huge flow of people. “Give it back.”

“You should have worn a scarf.” He saw her hand travel halfway up to her neck, then go back down. Yes, it was obvious. The crowd was pressing them closer now, and she was backing up, preferring apparently the swell of strangers between them, but he could throw an elbow like anyone else and this had barely started.

“I’ll get on the bloody train without the bloody ticket. They’ll take me. I’m a Shelby.”

“I’ll take the train. So am I.” 

They stared at each other, swayed a little by the crowd but otherwise still, and eventually the crowd began to thin, and Ada gave up. 

“For Christ’s sake.” She grabbed him by the good arm and hauled him towards the ticketmaster’s back office, banged on the door. When the poor fellow, a red-faced man no younger than fifty, poked his head out, she unceremoniously grabbed him by the vest, guided him out, and shoved Tommy in, slamming the door shut behind her.

“What is it, Tommy? She’s not a fucking revolutionary. She wants everything you want for us, all the normal things, all the doctors and the toys, and just—for other people, too! Did you read the bill? It’s not exactly a fucking overthrow!”

“Israel read the bill, and it fucks our bottom line six ways to Saturday, and you fucking knew that, and you fucking let it happen. This--” He gestured at the empty room. “This--” He grabbed the fur collar. “Is not fucking possible for all ‘other people’, and it’s all seas away from where we are right now. When she was an organizer, that was all right. When she was an organizer, I had no problems with her! What changed, Ada? What happened between that and now? Tell me.”

“Not everything is about you! Jesus, Tommy, did you never think—’maybe these two women are good, maybe Jessie is funny, and brave, and maybe it’s just natural that they be together, maybe—”

“Any other woman, Ada! Is that not obvious? Any other woman who not only is working against your own family, but who has spread her legs for your brother on several fucking—“

Ada slapped him. His hand came across just the same and hit the wall instead. A glass-framed certificate fell off it and shattered on the floor. Cheek red, he stared as long as he could stand it and then paced to the end of the office. For a second she thought he would smash other things, and then she noticed.

“You’re—“

“Don’t.” He pointed at her. His other hand pressed hard against the red stain spreading. “You do not get to fucking act like it matters to you. Do not say a fucking word.”

“I had nothing—“

“It just happened? Am I supposed to believe that, Ada? You are not a fucking child. You run the entire Atlantic operation. You have been married, you have had a fucking child. Do not try to make me believe that this was all a starry-eyed mistake.”

“Will you shut up and let me say something before you guess what it is and knock it down? For once in your life, will you shut up? God.” 

He sat down on the ticketmaster’s desk, picked up the blue scarf off it, and began binding himself up.

“I had only talked to her a few times before all this happened. She didn’t know they were going to shoot you, she only thought they’d kidnap you for a day. She didn’t realize—

“It’s the fucking—“

“ _ Shut up. _ She’s doing her best, Tommy, with you. You could have had a harder time with the strikers. You could have, and you know that. And she was right. And she’s good, and she’s kind, and you know what Polly asked me?”

Tommy was looking at the shattered glass now, but made no move to pick it up. “Does she make you happy?” he said. 

“And I said yes.” She expected some jibe, there, but none came. “That’s all there is. You’re not having her, Tommy. Not without me. I’ll be in her flat every night to keep your men out, I’ll do it for years, I’ll turn Polly, I’ll—”

“You’ve been removed from your position.” He stood.

She gaped. “Has there been a family vote?”

“You don’t want a family vote. You don’t want the honesty. You’ve been removed from your position, and you will receive some kind of stipend, I’ll work it out with Lizzie, for Karl. That and the flat, you’ll be fine. Your living arrangements are up to you. Jessie will not come to family meetings. I will not see her. She and the workers will find a concession to management sizable enough to be publicized; the law was passed while I was in hospital, and it makes my family look weak, and I won’t allow it. I will not allow anyone to hurt my family, not even you.” He adjusted his cap and made for the door

“Tommy, I am your family.”

“If it had been anyone else,” he said, hand on the doorknob, “I wouldn’t allow it. If they had shot Finn. If they had shot Arthur. If they had shot Polly. She would be in the Cut, and to hell with you. And if it had been anyone else—“ He looked her straight on. “You wouldn’t have done it.” He closed the door quietly behind him and left her with the broken glass.

 

Arthur had been called, and he’d sounded relieved at the prospect of violence. Getting the names had been easy enough, after having the missing piece of Jessie slotted into place. He waited outside the pub where he could see a hammer and sickle banner hanging against a back wall through the window. He’d smoked three cigarettes by the time Arthur, Isaiah and Finn drove up, practically bristling in anticipation. Or maybe that was the cocaine. “Alright, Tommy? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?” 

“Got to take care of this business first. It’s like old times, isn’t it?” He threw the cigarette down and watched as it sparked against the street. “Got the gas, Finn?” After seeing him nod nervously, he threw an arm around him. “This is being a Peaky Blinder. Do you still want to do it?” 

“Yes, Tommy.” 

“Alright boys. Let’s show them not to fuck with the Peaky Blinders.” 

Isaiah and Finn went around the side of the building and started to splash kerosene. He and Arthur strode through the door. 

“You boys aren’t welcome here. Go on home, we don’t want any trouble.” Before the bartender could say much else, Arthur had drawn and shot his gun, leaving only a spray of blood where a man had stood. 

Tommy turned to two men seated, stunned, at a corner table with two pints between them. “Bill Thomson and Peter Dunbridge?” 

Within a second, Tommy had his gun drawn. “I repeat. Bill Thomson and Peter Dunbridge?” One of them had managed to nod, so Tommy shot the other in the shoulder for not being quick enough. Behind him, Arthur was causing some general mayhem, smashing bottles to the ground and breaking chairs. “You tried to kill me on my land.” 

“No—no, please—” He shot the other one in the shoulder, to be fair. 

“Normally, I’d beat the shit out of you both. But you shot me, and I’m tired.” Aiming his gun, he managed to blow a hole through Peter’s balls before turning to Bill. “So I’ll keep it quick.” He gave Bill a gut shot and another through his foot. 

By now, Finn and Isaiah were done with the alleys and came in with two more cans of petrol. “Tie them to the bar and splash them down.” Arthur had scared the rest of the bar’s crowd away, and it looked like they’d evaporated. Pints and glasses were still scattered on tables, and it was dead silent except for Bill’s whimpering and Arthur’s heavy breathing. Finn and Isaiah scrambled into action as Arthur took a swig out of a bottle of what could have been rum. Maybe Alfie was right after all. After double checking the knots, he took another few shots at the men’s feet. He couldn’t have them running away after all. 

Tommy grabbed Peter’s face. “Don’t shoot at people. They might shoot back.” 

The four men followed the trail of the pungent liquid out the door before he dropped the match and watched the pub go up in flames. 

“Time to pay a visit to the Garrison, hey Tom?” Arthur clapped him on the shoulder, and he winced. 

“The night is young, Arthur. And look at you, not even a bruise. Not much of a night out, eh?”

“Then let’s go. Where next?”

“No. Wait. Hear that?” All of them listened to the fire and the screaming until only fire remained.

“Finn, Isaiah, this is a good lesson—always make sure they’re fucking dead.” Finn looked like he might throw up. Isaiah had lit himself a cigarette. 

“A lesson they should’ve fucking learned,” Arthur chuckled. “Now what, Tommy?”

“If a man throws a punch at you, Finn, what do you do?”

“Duck?”

“And?”

“And break his nose,” said Isaiah. 

“Exactly. We don’t just defend, boys. We expand. And you’ll enjoy this one, Arthur.” Tommy cracked a grin.

“Oh?”

“Come on, lads. We’re making a stop at the office.”

When they strolled in the office door, it was comical to see how quickly their swagger deflated. Arthur, Isaiah, and Finn just stared as Tommy went to pour himself some whiskey.

“Linda?”

“Polly has everyone’s kids for the night, don’t worry.”

“You’re not…”

“No.”

Tommy nearly spluttered out a laugh, but reined it in last-minute. “Linda’s going to use her mind for numbers. We’ve got Israel’s contact, the American accountant, in New York City, and Linda’s going to call and make some trades.”

They all stood there, processing. Or at least Finn and Arthur appeared to be processing, while Isaiah had helped himself to some of the whiskey.

“Look. Lord Bentham is one of two people who have a monopoly on jute, and he’s also one of the city’s leading Labour politicians. You’ve heard of him?”

“Of course,” said Linda, not looking up from where she was poised to take notes. Everyone else pretended that the question had been intended only for her.

“Right. So he’s partly to blame for this new bill, and even if he’s not, he’s inescapably tied to it. We’re going to take about a quarter of his holdings.”

“Small crew for a take, Tommy, don’t you think?”

“It’s not a heist, Arthur, it’s a burning. Like we just did, but with a factory’s worth of jute.”

“You keep saying that word like I’m supposed to know what it means.”

Tommy rubbed his face. “I’ve got the address, and it’s flammable.”

“Fine by me. But why does Linda have to be here?”

She looked at him.

“It’s getting late, wouldn’t you rather be in bed?”

“Thomas and I have worked out an agreement. I’ve made an algorithm, and he’s agreed. We’re to short against Jepsen at the last possible second. We’ll set our watches to the same time, do it within seconds.”

“...”

“Jepsen’s a holding company for the Benthams.”

Right, this was taking too long. “Linda, just tell the accountant to take into calculation that this will almost certainly cause a spike in Haber Chemicals. He can do whatever he likes with that information, but don’t get greedy. I’m counting on you to stop him from trying to impress me. I don’t want fucking innovation from this man. I’ve never met him.”

“And the algorithm?”

He peered over her shoulder. “What’s the sigma?”

“Price of wood. They’ll need replacements, and pulp may do it.”

He squinted, then handed over the watch. “Well done.” 

_ He almost certainly doesn’t understand it,  _ thought Linda. “Thank you, Thomas.”

“All right, boys, let’s head out. It’ll be easy going in. Might be tricky getting out. Finn, do you have a gun?”

“Yes, Tommy.”

“Good. Always have a gun. Alright, Linda, we’re locking up. Arthur will be along to pick you up in forty minutes; any longer than two hours and you can assume we’re all dead.”

Arthur was the only one who chuckled, but he made up for it with great appreciation. 

Tommy shook his head, took one more swig of whiskey, and then they were out. 

 

They were almost finished, halfway into the third of three warehouses, faces red from the heat and four security guards safely far away, tied to a post (not their fault that Bentham had chosen the wrong side, Tommy reasoned), and then the several men arrived. 

Instinctively, Tommy moved in front of Finn, just a little. “Who the fuck are you?” He started edging them towards cover, started looking at what else there was. From up above in the loft, hidden, Arthur shot him a look:  _ end this quick before the fucking scaffolding burns. _

“We’re the police. Hands up!”

“I know the fucking police, and you’re no police.”

“We’ve been deputized by the…” And the man blathered on and on as Tommy eyed his hat, his coat, his gun. By the time Tommy got to the shoes, he knew.

“It’s fucking Pinkertons!” 

“Fuck you!” 

Tommy yanked Finn back behind a stack of pallets as they peppered the warehouse with bullets. 

“Tommy!” He looked up. Arthur had found a massive sack of something, had heaved it up, with immense effort, over his shoulder. 

“Leave it, Arthur!”

“It’s flour!”

Tommy looked round. “Finn, get down.” He felt something tap against his leg, and it was Finn, offering him a broken broom handle. Unexpectedly, a surge of pride went through Tommy as he took it, lit it, and shouted, “Now!”

Arthur let the flour fall at the moment that Tommy reached back and hurled the burning wood as hard as he could. The air exploded in a massive concussion blast that knocked Tommy into Finn and Arthur back into the wall.

Tommy wiped his eyes and raised his head just in time to see Isaiah ramming the car into the only Pinkerton who had managed to stay standing. “Get in!”

Tommy turned back, squinting for Arthur in the fog. 

“Get the fuck in, Tommy!”

“Give it a second!” 

And there was Arthur, huffing and puffing and shooting a man just to Tommy’s left.

“Are you alright?” Tommy called, just before he hurled himself into another Pinkerton. There was a savage joy in it finally being not guns, not politics, nothing but his fists. The man had a sharp jab, but Tommy had the quickest dodge, and finally, after ducking a roundhouse punch, he took hold of the man’s lapels and shattered the man’s nose in an audibly crunching headbutt.

“Are you alright, Arthur?”

“I told you, I’m fine. Whatever the fuck jute is, it’s fucking soft.”

They clambered in the car and the car shot away.

 

The stars had long been lit by the time Tommy made his way up the narrow stairs and knocked at the door. He tried to make it so loud, but there had been whiskey and he was tired and--the door swung open and he looked into the gun and said, “Seems unladylike.”

He heard the click of the safety going on, and then the clatter of the gun as it hit the ground, and then May was on tiptoes, arms round his neck, kissing him. A curl of her hair brushed his cheek, and she smelled soft, and—

When she pulled away for just a second, he felt the smile before he could see it. “Also unladylike.”

“Would you like me to stop?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?” 

She smiled or maybe she hadn’t stopped smiling and kissed him again. It deepened and his hands were around her waist and they were stumbling in through the doorway. Her hands were up under his shirt when she pulled away. 

“Tommy, you’re bleeding.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“Take your shirt off.” 

“This wasn’t what I’d planned for the evening.” he said, hunched over the kitchen table as May prodded at his back. She kissed him lightly on the back of the neck. 

“Better?” 

“I was on this table the first time I was shot. It was a copper and Ada stitched me up but she didn’t stop swearing at the police the whole time. I think it’s what inspired her to join the Communists.” May had stopped her poking. “I meant that to be funny, you know.” 

She sighed. “I know. I just forget sometimes.” 

“Is it stopped?” 

“Yes, I think so. You should really go back to the hospital though.” 

“Alright then.” In one quick movement, he’d turned and trapped her in his arms. “Come on, May. It’s my last night of freedom before I’m stuck in that fucking bed again.” She grinned wickedly before swinging her leg over him like she was getting in the saddle. “Jesus.” His voice was hoarse, which she considered a personal victory. He sucked on her collarbone and his hand was sliding up her thigh under that pretty blue dress when there was a knock at the door. 

“What the fuck now.” May sighed. 

“You should get that.” Tommy nodded. 

“I should get that.” Then he kissed around her neck until she shivered before depositing her on the kitchen table. 

“Don’t move.” 

It was Finn, with ash still smeared around his face. “Polly needs you.” 

“Tell her I’m busy.”

“It’s Charlie.” 

“May, I’m sorry.” He hadn’t stopped moving, grabbing another gun out of a chest of drawers. “I’ll try to be back but I don’t know what the situation is.” 

“Don’t be sorry. I understand.” He kissed her distractedly and left, the door rattling behind him. She sighed and sank onto the chair. This had to be a sign. Family first, no? It was well after midnight, but she’d catch the train first thing in the morning. Knowing she’d never be able to sleep, she settled further into the stiff wooden chair and picked up the newspaper from that morning, stubbornly ignoring the tears pouring down her face. 

Tommy burst into the room looking wild. Polly looked up from her book and held her finger to her lips. 

“He’s been asking for you, but he’s asleep now.” she whispered. “Finn, there’s some tea and sandwiches in the kitchen.” 

“Where is he. What’s happened. Was it the Italians? The fucking IRA?” 

“Jesus, Tommy. It’s the fucking flu.” Tommy collapsed into an armchair, breathing like he’d been shot. Which, well. 

“What the fuck, Poll. You can’t- Jesus. Where is he?” 

“Upstairs. But first, we need to have a chat.” She crossed the room, firmly shutting the door behind her. “What’s happened with Ada?” 

Tommy lit a cigarette, still shaky. “You fucking dangle my son in front of me so I can come over and have a fucking argument.” 

Polly shrugged. “I told Finn Charlie was sick. It’s not my fault he only ever says three words at a time.” 

Tommy held his hand out. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow, alright? Let me see him.” 

“He’s in Karl’s room. But they’re both sleeping which took me an age and a half so if you wake them up, you can be the one to bring them tea and toast.” She stood. “I’m going to bed. We will be having this conversation bright and early so don’t even think about squirming out of it, Thomas.” 

Tommy had to try to keep his footsteps slow and measured instead of bursting up the stairs to check. He was alright, Polly had said, but he couldn’t quite trust it until he saw him with his own eyes. 

Sure enough, Karl and Charlie were sound asleep in the same bed. Charlie’s arms were wrapped around the teddy bear Lizzie had sent him for his last birthday, the one that he virtually never let go of. Padding around to his side of the bed, Tommy smoothed his hair back. He was warm and sniffly but undoubtedly alive. Tommy let out a breath, long and slow. Thank God. Thank God. He pressed a kiss to Charlie’s cheek, still rounded and babyish, before exiting the room. 

God, Karl looked exactly like Ada when she was that age. They’d used to sleep piled into one bed, Arthur on one end and John on the other with him and Ada back to back in the middle. Poll had told Ada she could have her own bed, but she’d refused, saying she wouldn’t leave her brothers. Jesus. What a fucking mess. Tommy made his way down the hall, pulling an armchair from Polly’s study outside Charlie and Karl’s door. He knew it was just the flu. But at the same time, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep anywhere else. He closed his eyes for a moment and entered a strange half asleep, still alert state. 

 

It was sometime in the early morning when he half-heard someone coming down the hall, and his mind processed it dimly, just enough that he could open his eyes. 

It was Ada, looking almost just the same as she had that day, perhaps with makeup a little retouched. He closed his eyes again and felt the wrongness of it all passing over him as she went into the bedroom without saying a word: he could trust her with Charlie’s life, somehow, and yet not still trust her? What (if not hell itself) was that? He could hear her murmuring softly, a little coo, a childish squeal of excitement, and then shushing. Silence, and then singing. It seemed the height of injustice that her voice hadn’t changed.

Ada popped her head out the door, still looking guarded. “Charlie wants you.” 

He pushed himself out of the chair, holding back a groan. Maybe Ada was right and he was getting too old for this. He was no good with comfort. Grace was always the one who could quiet a screaming Charlie with her voice and arms or maybe just her smell. “Daddy!” Charlie was hoarse and congested. He crossed the room and let the two children act as a barrier between him and Ada. For her part, her back was to him as she listened to Karl chatter on about his friend Billy’s roller skates. “How’re you feeling, eh? Gave me a bit of a scare last night.” 

“Did I?” Charlie blinked blearily up at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“No, no, no, it’s alright. It’s not your fault.” He patted Charlie’s little arm. “You know I am. Daddy’s just a scaredy cat, right?”

Charlie giggled. “Kind of.” 

“How are you feeling, eh?” Tommy put the back of his hand to Charlie’s forehead. “Now, I’m no doctor, but that seems alright.”

“I’m…” Charlie thought long and hard about what words could possibly express how he felt. Then his face brightened. “Can I have a pancakes?”

“You…” It was so tempting to just say yes to Charlie, all the time. He thought the temptation would wear off once the novelty of Charlie talking had worn off, but it was still as strong as the first day Charlie had learned the word please. “...can ask Aunt Polly once the sun’s up, all right?”

“Aw.” But Charlie was smiling at him with his mother’s eyes, not so cold and pale as his, full of life. 

“Go back to sleep.” He didn’t dare kiss Charlie’s forehead with the flu in the room and a hole in his stomach, but he gave his best smile and brushed Charlie’s cheek with his thumb before he stood to go.

“Is Karl alright?” He wasn’t looking at her, but the changed quality of his voice made it clear who he was talking to.

Ada nodded, still stroking Karl’s hair. “It’s hard. Without Freddie. Because of Freddie. I don’t know.” He had almost left the room when she whispered. “Tommy, I’m sorry.” He paused, opened his mouth, and shut it again. 

“Don’t.” 

“Mum” whispered Karl “can I please have some tea?” 

“Of course, sweetheart.” She brushed past him as she left. 

“Uncle Tommy, are you angry with mum?” 

Oh Jesus fuck. He was too tired for this. “Your mum and I...we had a disagreement. Do you ever fight with Charlie?” 

Karl’s tiny mind turned that particular question over several times before coming to the conclusion that he couldn’t answer it. “Um…”

“Well, I used to fight with John and Arthur all the time. And your mum, and Aunt Polly. It’s what we do in this family, it’s what all families do. And…” He cleared his throat. “When you get older, you get more serious, and things get harder. So sometimes you fight about...things you care about. But the...the important thing is, Karl—Charlie, are you listening?”

“Yes, Dad.” 

“The important thing is that the family stays together. Family and other things can go together. Family and happy can go together, and family and sad can go together. Family and angry can go together, sometimes.”

Karl considered this, and then his gray eyes fixed on Tommy in a way that reminded Tommy of his father, always catching out Tommy’s facile arguments, irrelevancies, emotional refusals--in the middle of shouting, even, he would look at Tommy and Tommy would know he’d lost.

“Are you angry with mum, then, Uncle?”

“A little, Karl. But it’s alright. Go to sleep, there’ll be pancakes. I’ll tell Cook.”

“Pancakes,” whispered Charlie gleefully. 

Exiting the room, Tommy crossed paths again with Ada, now with a cup and saucer in her hand. 

“They’re asleep again.” 

She jabbed the tea into his hands. 

“Take it, you look like death.” He sank back into the armchair as she bustled back to the kitchen. He felt like he’d barely shut his eyes when she re-emerged with her own cup. She’d posted herself in a chaise longue slightly down the hall, when Polly emerged wrapped in a robe. 

“I thought I’d heard voices. Alright, Ada?” 

Ada glanced down the hall. “I could have another cup of tea.” She tucked her hand into the crook of Polly’s elbow, and the two of them drifted away.

Jesus, thought Tommy, like he was the big bad wolf. And then—maybe it had been Karl looking at him, or maybe it was the proper workings of his own mind preventing him from sinking into self-pity, but it was so clear, immediately after that thought:  _ isn’t that what you wanted? _

_ They’re supposed to know better, they’re supposed to know the difference— _

_ Between what, the killer and the family man? They’re the same man, you know.  _ The voice in his head was eerily like Grace’s.

 

Meanwhile, Ada and Polly settled into the sitting room, pretense of tea abandoned.

“Ada, what on earth are we going to do with you.” 

Ada smiled weakly. “I don’t know, Pol.” 

“Did you make it to London, then?” 

Ada shook her head before her face crumpled. It was the exhaustion and Karl and everything catching up all at once and she was sobbing in a heartbeat. Polly crouched next to her, stroking her shoulder like she had the first time Ada’d gotten her heart broken. “Oh hush now, it’s alright. Ignore Tommy, he’ll listen to sense eventually.” 

“It’s not him.” 

“Karl will be fine! He’ll be running around tormenting Cook for more sweets tomorrow.” 

Ada straightened away. “It’s not him either. Polly, I- Jessie.” 

“J. Right.” Ada started to cry even more. 

“I never meant—it wasn’t her fault. And what if they take Karl away and she’s in London and I can’t be there and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. And I know that the Church says—” 

“Oh hush. Hush my love, it’s alright.” Polly had wrapped her firmly in her arms as Ada bawled. “I love you, you silly girl. No matter what. Besides, think of all the money you’ll save on rubbers.” Ada was still crying, but there was some laughter in there too. “Now. I’ll make you some tea, alright? It’s far too early to be crying like this.” 

 


	7. “An affair? What is this, a fucking dime novel?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie and May, May and Tommy, Tommy and Alfie. A few matters are settled to everyone's agreement, although not exactly to everyone's satisfaction.

May was in the stables, breathing in that familiar air—sawdust and dung, the earth—and idly wondering if perhaps this was the year she should start putting Armageddon out to stud, when a servant came running in. 

“Yes?” Oh, it looked urgent. She didn’t want it to be urgent. Ideally, she’d like to stay in the stables forever, but—

“There’s a man here to see you, your ladyship. He’s a—he says he knows you, ladyship, but—”

“Is it Mr. Shelby?”

“No, ladyship.” The man had the grace to look embarrassed for her at that question. “A Mr. Solomons, ladyship. We wouldn’t have let him in, but he was quite...adamant.”

Oh, she knew in her heart of hearts that her servants, maids, footmen, stable-boys, cook, and housekeepers were all better people than her, most likely, but she sometimes just hated them. Wanted the house to herself, no eyes, no judgment. This was one of those times.

“Let him in.”

“Ladyship—”

And now she didn’t even have that authority, did she? “Let him in. And get him a cup of tea. It’s a long drive.”

“Yes, ladyship.”

She thought for a second about the blue dress up in her room, then smiled to herself. If he could be at his best hatless and in a sodden shirt, then she could certainly receive company in a smart trouser set that smelled faintly of horses.

She had wanted a chance to observe him from the hall, but her boots clicked on the polished hardwood almost like heels wood, so by the time she made it into the sitting room, he was already standing. “You’ve slept, I take it?”

“With not much help from you.” They both grinned, and for once she didn’t feel foolish about it. For once this was almost easy, and as much as he was a danger, he was also familiar. “Well?” he said.

“What?”

“‘S fuckin’ teatime, innit.”

“Parties are usually instigated by the hostess, I’ll have you know.”

“Well I didn’t get much etiquette training in the bakery. Speaking of, I’ve brought you something, haven’t I? So you don’t think I’m a complete fucking barbarian.” He went over and retrieved a basket from a side table. Pulling the cloth aside, he revealed were delicately iced tea cakes that looked utterly perfect. “No offense to your cook, yeah? Just a present.” 

“Thank you, Alfie.” She smiled one of those delicious fucking smiles. He wanted to bite her lip. He wanted to run away, back to London and back to Rachel who would probably hit him, but at least she wouldn’t smile like that. She lifted a bell and summoned a maid, who kept giving him wary sideways glances. He smiled at her with all his teeth and then she dropped her gaze. “Thank you, Claire.” She practically fled the room as May settled back into a chair. 

“How are you?” 

“Much better, yeah, now that I don’t have to ride any more fucking horses. I thought I’d have to fucking amputate, yeah? Throbbing it was.” 

She took a sip of tea and without so much as a raised eyebrow reminded him that this house was probably older than the country’s borders, had seen the rise and fall of kings and queens, and was now having to tolerate him talking about his ridiculous cock.

“You?” he said.

“I...have slept. I have seen to the horses, gone for a ride—don’t laugh, it’s the one unspoilable pleasure I have in life—and I’ve seen Tommy for all of five seconds, whilst being handed round from Shelby to Shelby like an unwanted Christmas present.”

“At least you haven’t killed any of them, mate. Imagine how it fucking bad was for me!”

“I came close. But they never gave me a gun.”

“Right. So now what? You’re going to go back to your stables with your little ponies, and wait for him to call you?”

That was exactly what she’d been doing, but. “I’ve also fired approximately a quarter of my staff—with decent recommendations—sold two horses, begun a reordering of the house, learned that my father-in-law is dead, and begun to run for Parliament.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or not.

“Don’t tell Tommy.”

Alright, no laughing, however badly he wanted to. He leaned in. “Now why would you put yourself in with that load of rotting, useless bastards? Oh, Jesus. Jesus.” He was surely laughing now. “Are you going to wear that fucking wig?”

Not exactly full-throated support, but she hadn’t expected much better. It was Alfie. “If they’re a load of rotting, useless bastards, how hard can it be to best them?”

He made some sort of strangled noise. “They’re old money, it’s like having magic! Like if I was fighting a man who could spit fire. He doesn’t have to be fucking smart.”

“I’m old money.” 

“And you are fucking smart, aren’t you. Fucking hell.” They fell into a silence, and now came the real conversation.

“You’re not going to fucking tell him, eh?”

“He never tells me anything.”

“So this is some kind of—”

“No.  _ No. _ I cannot allow him to touch this campaign. It will shoot my term to pieces before it’s even begun. I am not his wife.”

“Of course you’re not his fucking—”

“That’s not what you thought. That’s not what anybody thinks. It’s the horses and Tommy, and I haven’t won the Derby in two years, so everyone’s forgotten about the horses. Besides.” She tilted her chin to look at the wealth and glory round them. “This house has not seen a proper party in years. It’s an entire muscle atrophying. The dust.”

“You’re fucking...doing it because you can?”

“Why do you do it?”

He didn’t tilt his hat, didn’t lean in, didn’t blink, but she knew what came next would mean something by the way he didn’t reply at once. “Because sooner or later, someone’s going to try to fucking kill us. More than they already do...and because I fucking can.”

“Just that latter will have to be enough for me,” she said. “I won’t say it, of course. I’ll find something to else to say...something about the war, of course, and service. Ian, if I have to.”

“Fuck, you’re serious.”

“Yes.” She all but held her breath, but her face was a perfect mask of gentility.

A moment only, and then his mouth curled into a dark smile. “They were fucking right to call you Princess.”

In that moment, she could feel the existence of her body in a way that she’d rarely felt it before; it was if someone was running currents through the surface of her skin, as if the high tilt of her chin was natural rather than habit, as if she’d finally finished that dream where she was racing the Derby, and she’d won. Anyone else, and  _ because I can and I want to  _ would have been met with repulsion, but she’d gambled on him being the exception, and she’d won.

And also, it occurred to her that the shirt he wore was the same as the shirt the forest had destroyed, and that there were several different ways for her to destroy this one. And that she might like to.

In one slow movement, he went from lounging in his chair to leaning forward, forearms on his knees, gray eyes intent.   
  
“Ladyship?”   
  
At the door, nakedly interested, a footman.   
  
“Yes, Victor?”   
  
“Damon says Valentine is warmed up now. Shall I tell him you’re occupied?”   
  
“Yes, tell him to run her himself. Also tell him we may be down eventually, to have a look at her. I have a potential buyer here.”   
  
“Won’t your visitor wish to hear about the horse from Damon, ma’am?”   
  
At any other time, she might have taken the implicit insult. Now it glanced off and pinged into the carpet behind her, to be forgotten.    
  
“That won’t be necessary.”   
  
“Yes, your Ladyship.”

May put down her teacup, got to her feet, and made for the door, feeling him watch her all the while. In the doorframe, she paused; this was the point at which she was supposed to ask him to come. She glanced over her shoulder.  _ Come with me or don’t; it’s up to you. _

After a few minutes, she could hear two pairs of shoes against the hardwood floor.

“It’s a bit fucking disappointing, mate.” His voice was horrifically loud in the wide space of the staircase, and she loved it, tried to match it.

“What is?”

“To find you’re wearing those trousers for a horse.”

“I had no warning you would come. There’s no way for you to know what I would have worn for you.”

“What—”

Both hands on his scarf, she pulled him into the bedroom and he kicked the door shut behind them.

“Next time,” she said, “Call ahead and find out.”

He tasted like smoke, and when he turned and crowded her against the door it was like no other man had, rough and a little clumsy not from drink or from exhaustion but from her, and she clutched his coat and welcomed it, bringing him to this, his beard rough against her palm now and the hat off and the jacket off and—

“Jesus.” She looked at him and laughed. At a yank, the buttons hadn’t so much as budged. Her hair was wild and she was alive, so alive, like almost no one else had ever seen. He found her truly dangerous for the first time but fuck it, he felt like falling. Fuck it.

He knelt.

  
  
  


Ada raced up the stairs, nearly knocking over an umbrella stand as she did. The door swung open and there she was, alright and safe. She almost leaned in for a kiss before she remembered. Jessie took her by the hand and pulled her into the house. “Hello,” she whispered. 

“Hello.” They both stood there for a moment, before Jessie stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against Ada’s tentatively. Ada curled her fingers around Jessie’s neck before giving her a real kiss. Ada had somewhat ascended beyond space and time before she heard a throat clearing behind her and the man who’d driven her looking faintly stunned.

“Oh, sorry, Ollie. I think we’re alright. Do you know when Mr. Solomons is coming back?” 

“I believe he said if he wasn’t back by six o clock, he’d be gone till tomorrow.” 

“Thank you, Ollie.” 

“Bye, Miss.” He made a point of closing the door behind him. 

“Are you alright?” They’d migrated to the kitchen and Jessie’s hand stayed on the small of her back the entire time. She’d forced a cup of tea and an amazing morning roll on Ada and now she sat directly across, their feet tangled together. 

“I am. I’ve told Tommy.” Jessie shut her eyes. 

“I see. How’d he take it?” 

“He’s not coming after you. He might not speak to me ever again, but he’s not coming for you.” 

“And the men?” 

Ada shook her head. “I’m sorry.” Jessie sighed, low and pained. Ada reached for her hand and they sat for a while, listening to the London rain pattering against a window. 

“How long can you stay?” 

“Probably the night. Karl’s better now.” 

Jessie smiled genuinely. “I’m glad.” 

Ada had gotten up and was poking around the flat. 

“Is this your house? I didn’t know communist agitating paid so well, I might have stuck with it.” 

“An old friend’s, actually. He might be back tonight, but I think he mentioned a woman so we’ll see.” Jessie stood also and wrapped her arms around Ada from the back. 

“And he knows?” 

“Well. He made up one bed for him, and one bed for us, so I’d say so.” 

Ada smiled. 

“Where is this bed?” 

They didn’t kiss right away, not at first. Just holding her, feeling that brave impassioned heart beating was enough for Ada. With Freddie, it had always been quick, in alleys and in narrow beds. Exciting with the threat of getting caught, but quick and it left her wanting more often than not. Jessie was exciting too, in a different, deeper way. She had loved Freddie, no question about that, but Jessie was equally perfect in a way she could feel to her bones. It felt like they were reinventing the world when they were together. 

“Does your family know? About you?” 

Jessie hesitated. “Yes. It’s complicated.” 

Ada squeezed her hand. 

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, I want to. I don’t...I was raised in an orphanage. But there’s this friend—well, I thought he was going to marry me, but we would have both hated that and now we’re friends, I think, but it’s hard to tell with him. But he’s my family, I suppose. He knows. He’s alright. He fucks men, sometimes, but then I have too, so. Yes.” 

“That is complicated.” But Ada was smiling, so it was alright. Jessie rolled out of bed. 

“I want a bath.” 

“Oh.” 

“Are you coming?” 

It took fucking ages for them to boil enough water to fill the metal tub Jessie had dragged out of a kitchen cabinet and placed in the middle of the kitchen, but Ada didn’t mind because up until the kettle whistled insistently, they were entwined and kissing until she was breathless. The light was softened by the scattered clouds and dirty windows, and so were the noises of the street below. Jessie’s firm fingers unhooked and unlaced efficiently- it had always taken Freddie an eternity but she didn’t, couldn’t think of him now- until she was bare in a stranger’s kitchen. 

“Go on, get in.” 

“Aren’t you—” 

“In a minute. Let me take care of you.” Ada sank into the warm water. The tub was barely big enough to stretch her legs, but after a long train ride and her early morning sob with Polly it felt heavenly. Jessie was tracing small circles on her neck and back and Ada sighed blissfully. She stopped suddenly. 

“What is it?” 

“I have to tell you something.” 

“Oh, god. Who else did you try to kill?” 

Jessie swatted at her enough to set the bath water splashing onto the floor. 

“My name isn’t Jessie Eden. Well, it is. But I was raised as Rachel Abner.” She could see Ada’s mind working. “Abner is a Jewish name, yes. I go by Eden because it’s already hard enough to be a woman communist, let alone a Jewish woman communist. New York is different than Birmingham and at the end of the day the Christians hate each other and they’re supposed to be the same fucking religion.” 

Ada settled back into the bath. 

“My Aunt Pol would have a conniption if you compared her to a Protestant.” 

“I just, I didn’t want any more secrets.” 

Ada reached for her and cradled her face. 

“I understand. Do you want me to call you Rachel?” Jessie shook her head. 

“I’ve been Jessie Eden for years. Really, it’s only Alfie who calls me Rachel now.” 

“Alfie?” 

“Alfie Solomons. He’s who I was talking about earlier.” With a jerk, Ada was standing straight up. 

“Are you telling me that I’m naked in Alfie Solomons’ kitchen. Alfie Solomons, the mad Jewish gangster, who tried to kill three of my brothers.” 

Jessie made a face. “...Technically, I tried to kill one of your brothers.” 

Ada moaned. “Polly’s right. I have no common sense.” 

“If it helps, I think they’re friends now. Alfie went to the hospital.” 

“Oh my god, that’s worse. Now they’re trying to kill everyone else instead of each other.” 

Jessie giggled. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Ada started to laugh too. “We’re fucking ridiculous. Do you have anything else to tell me? Are you a spy, because Tommy did that once, falling in love with a spy. But it worked out, more or less.” 

Jessie thought. “Once when I was six, I stole some penny candy, but I felt so bad I returned it.” 

Ada nodded. “I think I can live with that.” she said solemnly. “Now please, come here Miss Eden.” 

Jessie shucked her layers before climbing into the bath on top of Ada, names and Alfie and religion forgotten as their bodies touched. 

  
  
  


May leaned on the doorframe that connected bedroom to bathroom. “You’re like a fucking chimney, you know?”

Alfie rolled over and chucked the end of his cigarette into a nearly empty tumbler of whiskey, and May laughed as it only made the thing catch fire. A contained little fire, though. Unlikely to hurt anyone. 

“Sorry, mate, was that not allowed?”

“When have you ever let someone tell you what’s not allowed?”

“Mrs. Bernard, first form.”

She climbed back into bed. “You are allowed to smoke. You are not allowed to set my house on fire. You are certainly not, under any circumstances, to keep calling me ‘mate.’”

“Duly fuckin’ noted, mate.”

“Turn over.” She pushed his shoulder.

He laughed. “Jesus, you’re insatiable.”

“Turn over, I want to see.”

“See what, proof that Tommy Shelby can’t sew for shit?” But he did.

“What’s this?” She traced one on his arm.

“It’s proof I’m a bad bad man who shouldn’t be between a Lady’s sheets.” 

May rolled her eyes. 

“It’s from prison. Means I’m a thief, if you must fucking know.” 

“Oh. Well I did already know that. What about those?” She grasped his wrists gently, studying them with an intensity that was almost academic. 

“Time served. Ten years. The crown is because I’m in charge, yeah? The rose is because I went in when I was a nipper and turned eighteen on the inside. King got me out, I went to fucking war and got another tattoo. That was fucking regretful that one, because Georgie couldn’t draw for shit so now it’s all blown out.” May’s fingers hadn’t stopped exploring his back. 

“And who’s Rachel?” Even under that inscrutable beard, she could see his jaw flex. 

“Someone from a long time ago.” He rolled back around. “What about you, Lady Carleton? Any tattoos I missed?” 

“Wouldn’t know where to get one even if I wanted to. Besides, what would it be? A horse? They’re all outside my window, I’m not likely to forget.” She was no longer exploring now, just running her hand over his shoulder blades, left to right and back again. “Anything else, I’d just as soon forget. Forgetting is underrated.”

“Anything you’re trying to forget?”

“Any Rachels, you mean?”

“No.”

“Well, there aren’t. If that was what you were asking. No, I was quite good at being independently married. Actually, come to think of it...I believe that the years of my marriage were more than the years I’ve not been married.” She was counting it out in her head. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Young, then?” 

“Very.” 

“Too young?”

“No, I don’t think so. Given what it was, it was more like a location than anything else. At the start. I suppose we did become friends...very good friends. But by then it was too late.”

“The war.”

“Yes.” She flopped down beside him, turned her head to catch his eyes. “You’re not very talkative now, are you?”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re sleepy. It’s all right. Sleep as long as you like. There’s just a couple matters we should settle first.”

“Tommy.” 

“Yes.” 

He shrugged and she watched his back move. Good God. He didn’t look like it, but he was nothing but muscle. 

“I can be fucking discreet you know. It is fucking possible. Sides, I’m one of God’s chosen people an all. Can’t have them knowing I bedded a gentile.  _ Mate _ .” 

She propped herself up on her elbow. “I’m not ashamed of you. I just don’t want a jealous Tommy Shelby trying to kill me.” 

“I think you can hold your own. You survived a fucking exodus into the woods. And Tommy’s mad family who could all kill you with a fucking spoon and a chunk of hair or summat.” 

May smiled. 

“Remember when you took your shirt off?” 

“I think you do.” They grinned at each other, slow. “So that’s why I’m here? A wet shirt?”

“I was wondering why you’re here. You’re the one that came.”

“I was passing by.”

She laughed outright. “You even share lines!”

“Now that’s the second time you’ve brought him up.”

“I think…” He watched as she tried to decide, and finally settled on the more serious answer. “I think you should talk to him. And I don’t think I should lie to him. Even by omission. Not about this. It’s what will pay off in the long run.”

“So there is a long run. With which of us?”

“I’m sorry, can we go back to the wet shirt?”

“If I’d known me in my skivvies would have had such a fucking impact, I’d have taken my trousers off and we could have done this ages ago.” 

May smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Not that long ago. I do have some standards.” 

Alfie pulled her closer. “That’s a fucking lie. You wanted me as soon as I mentioned my cock.” 

May rolled her eyes again. She was getting into a habit. “Just for that, I’m getting dressed.” 

Alfie kept his broad hands wrapped around her waist. “Just a minute, your Ladyship. I’m a fucking invalid, yeah? I need care. And bed rest. Lots of fucking bed rest.” 

May settled back in. “My servants are going to tell everyone in the village by this evening.” 

Alfie scratched along his scarred cheek. “Fuck ‘em. Tell them you’re just providing for the veterans, yeah? Or you could just take them out back and threaten them wiv a pistol, since you’re a gangster now.” 

“Am I?” 

“Well, you know what they say, don’t you? You are the company you keep, right? Or is it you are what you eat, because that’s a whole other fucking thing.” 

“Under these circumstances, they’re the same. So, about Tommy.”

“Do what you want.”

“Right. And on the off chance a reporter says, “Mr. Solomons, is it true that you have been having an affair with—”

“An affair? What is this, a fucking dime novel?”

“—the Conservative candidate for the Eastbourne—”

“Conservative?”

“—riding, May Carleton?”

“Conservative?”

“What will you say?”

“Fucking Conservative?”

“Alfie.”

“I’ll say, ‘Absolutely fucking not, and how dare you fucking insult me with such poor fucking taste.’”

“Is that to me or to the candidacy? Because my husband’s family are all Conservatives, and this district has gone Conservative for at least the past thirty years, and I’d rather not lose.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather fucking lose?”

“Quite.”

“Mmnf.” He buried his head in a pillow. “You’ll get fuck all donations from me,” he said into it.

“I think I’ll survive without the bakery money, thanks.”

“What about the gambling money? And the money from the rum? And the drug money?”

“Without that too.”

“Well then. What the fuck do you need me for then, eh?” 

May reached for him. “I’m sure I can think of something.” 

It was almost supper by the time they emerged from the bedroom. Passing Victor, May cleared her throat. 

“As you can see, the horse rides very well.” 

Alfie muffled a laugh into his shirtsleeve. “Very well, indeed Lady Carleton.” 

“Would you like anything to drink?” 

Now he was fidgeting at his cuffs. “I’m afraid not. Got some business in Birmingham. I should be off.” 

“I see.” That fucking mask was back up. Her well-bred stone face gave nothing away. The next person he bedded would be the most expressive he could fucking find. He reached out for her wrist, but she pulled away. 

“Victor, could you please have Mr. Solomons’ car pulled around?” The footman jumped, and tried his best to look like he hadn’t been listening intently. 

“Of course, your ladyship.” As he scuttled away, Alfie tried to catch her eye, but failed, eventually just curling his fingers around her chin. 

“Listen. It’s just fucking business, alright? I didn’t know I’d be spending my day in your bed.” 

She looked back at him, her face perfectly still. “It’s perfectly fine, Mr. Solomons. I have my own work I should be doing.” 

“May, don’t do that. Don’t go all fucking posh on me.” She turned away and began pouring herself a drink in a stiff, mechanical way. “I’m not fucking running away. You can’t get rid of me that quickly, Tommy’s been trying for fucking years—” At Tommy’s name she dropped the metal tongs she’d been measuring ice with. “Sorry.” 

He wasn’t used to this. Every fuck since Rachel had been bloody, and violent, and quick, If he wasn’t paying them to leave, they usually had fucked off right away. Not bloody marriage material. “I’ll go. Alright? I’ll fucking go.” He limped out before she had finished pouring a healthy glass of whiskey. 

She heard his car start up in the driveway, and thought that for a delightful beginning it had had a sour end. Nevertheless, how obvious could she have made it? She had wanted to deal with it all herself, and here she was for the umpteenth time waiting, waiting on someone else to talk, waiting for someone else to react, means beyond her reach, matters outside her hands. Exactly what she had been running from. 

Although.

She didn’t trust the servants not to eavesdrop, but the study was solid wood and there was a much lower chance they’d meddled with the telephone. Right? Right. 

“Thomas Shelby, please. Birmingham.” As if she had to specify. 

“Hello?” He sounded like he’d been dragged by his thumbs through an acre of brambles, then hung upside down in a smokehouse for a few hours. Now she almost regretted leaving the little Birmingham flat. Almost.

“Tommy?”

He cleared his throat. Spoke a little quieter. “Yes?”

“Is it a bad time?”

“Ah...no.” Not promising.

“I thought I might warn you.”

“Oh?”

“To keep Arthur out of the house. Alfie’s coming down.”

She thought she could hear him saying, quite quietly, “no, the—” and then, much more distinctly, “And how do you know this?”

She bit the bullet. “He just left my house.”

“And is he—ow! Just—coming to kill me?”

“Why would he be coming to kill you?”

“Does he ever need a reason?”

“He’s not a mad dog.”

“May, what is this about?”  _ Crash.  _ And a gleeful squeal. 

“Hello?” 

“ Anna big big tiger! ”

“Hello?”

A full-throated shriek. But, thankfully, a childish one. All right. All right, May understood. Finally Tommy got back to the phone with a bit of a scramble. “Are you still there?”

“Tell him hello for me.”

“What?”

“Charlie. Tell him hello for me. And Karl, if he’s there.”

“May says hello, Charlie.”

“ Who’s that? ”

“The horse lady.”

“ Hi horse lady! ”

“He says hello.”

“I heard.” Now there were smiles going both ways down the lines. 

“So...”

“So Alfie’s coming,” she said.

“Yes.” He had seen every sign—had even, if he remembered correctly, shared some kind of bizarre, exhaustion-fueled, sly smile with her over—God, this was stupid—Alfie’s tattoos? Had that been it? Jesus, Jesus, it was a miracle he was a father. And yet it was a complete surprise and some kind of relief. It wasn’t up to him alone to choose now. Everything that had been divided was now mixing in a catastrophe that threw up sparks and terrors and unexpected sweetness. Why bother to try and stop it? It was already happening, had already happened. “You got on, then?”

“Very well.” It was so new and so satisfying, but she tried not to let it travel down the line. Maybe a little trickle. She couldn’t tell if it was a cruelty or not. 

“That’s good.” His voice was surprisingly soft. She wished she could see the expression on his face, tell if this blessing was some kind of farewell or the start of something stronger, something stranger. “Better than another civil war on my hands.”

“Another? Is it Ada?”

“How—”

“Just an educated guess. Tommy?” This was harder, now, than it would have been if only she’d been able to keep up the tension and the misdirected anger and all the rest of it. This was too plain and bare when they were soft, and without screens. “I’ll sell you the horse, but I’m going to stop...chasing you.” 

Yes, put in words it was small and unpleasant. She forged on. 

“And it’s not because of him, it’s not...Two days and I didn’t know you if you were alive, and it ended with Finn on the line.” It was a gentle humor, not scorn, when she just said: “Finn, Tommy? And again, last night. I waited to see if your son was all right. You never called. I’ve never waited like that before. Once, maybe, for Ian, and he  _ was _ dead, so that’s of no account…” 

How easy it would be to turn to reproach, and yet how much she didn’t want to. It would be too pathetic to make accusations when the root was so crimeless, so plaintive:  _ you don’t care very much at all, do you? _

“I’m sorry,” he said. It was what he had wanted, this, but it was still true. He was sorry. It felt like a lifetime ago that Alfie had accused him of picking May because with anyone else, there’s be too much danger that they’d actually stay. And then she had stayed. This was the necessary result. Necessary, necessary. He clung to the telephone. “I am sorry.”

“Please don’t...Look, I’m running for Parliament.” Silence. “Tommy?”

“As luck would have it…”

“You’re  _ not _ .” (He was.)

Neither of them knew it, but they both looked just the same, at the massive hardwood desk with phone in one hand, face in the other, at such a perfect equilibrium between laughter and despair that they stayed that way a good minute before Tommy said, “Is that it, then?”

“I’m still selling you the horse.”

“I don’t need a horse.”

“Everyone needs a horse. And besides, you’ve never experienced a tea party with Alfie Solomons. You wouldn’t want to miss out on that.” 

“Does he drink tea?”

“He even bakes.”

Tommy smiled like it hurt him.

“I should go,” she said, after a moment. “After everything, though, I thought we shouldn’t have loose ends.”

“Yeah.”

“Goodbye, Tommy.”

He couldn’t say goodbye, so he had to hang up instead.

  
  
  
  


 

 

He was still staring at the telephone when he heard the front door open. Polly speaking softly, and Karl babbling. He certainly had his mother’s mouth, although, to be fair, Freddie was never very quiet himself either. Part of Tommy hoped Karl would grow up as the biggest Conservative in Birmingham just out of spite. 

Charlie was playing at his feet with some wooden blocks which he would stack carefully and then knock over with a gleeful squeal. Maybe that was all he was doing, just building things up to watch them tumble. There was a knock on the door and Polly stuck her head in. 

“Are you ready, Charlie?” 

Tommy looked up from where he’d been staring at the telephone. “Ready for what?” 

Polly looked at him impatiently. “The children are leaving with Ada so we can get ready for the party. They’re all going out to Arthur’s.” 

Tommy sat back heavily. “Good. That’s good. She can’t fall in love with any more communists out in the country.” He lit a cigarette before squatting next to Charlie. “Be good for Aunt Ada and Uncle Arthur or they’ll feed you to the chickens.” 

His boy giggled and continued to play with the blocks. 

“Can’t even intimidate a three year old. Jesus.” He pulled Charlie close and pet the top of his head before planting a kiss there. “I’ll see you soon.” 

Pol was smiling wistfully. “Come here, Charlie. Help Aunt Ada get your things.” Charlie scrambled up, and clung to Tommy’s trouser legs for a moment before toddling up the stairs. Polly stepped carefully around the blocks before perching in the chair across from his. 

“So.” 

Tommy met her gaze. “So.” 

Polly lit one of her cigarettes with ease. “When you were younger, you wouldn’t go anywhere without Ada. Even you and John might fight, but you and Ada were inseparable. Once, she went to that rich family’s house for tea, do you remember them? The Browns I think it was. But she went to their house and the entire time she was there, you waited right outside the gate. Even though it was raining, and your dad threatened all kinds of hell, you wouldn’t leave until she did.” 

Tommy nodded, not in agreement, just to show he understood. 

“We did a lot of things when we were children. I don’t think Michael would agree to being kicked down the street in a box now.” 

“I’m not sure he ever did.” She dug into her purse, finally coming up with company ledgers. “What does this say.” 

Tommy sighed. “Shelby Company Limited.” 

“That’s fucking right. Not Tommy Shelby Company Limited. All of us.” 

“Technically,” he murmured as he reached for a glass and the decanter, “technically, she’s a Thorne.” 

Polly’s glare could cut the glass in half. 

_ “Technically,” _ she pronounced each syllable with more venom than the last, “I’m a Gray. Didn’t stop me from keeping the company running while you lot were off in France.” 

“Would you like it back?”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“You already know that being counselor is better than being commander.”

She scoffed. “Do you know how many times I could have saved this family from your fucking ambition?”

“That’s why you don’t want it. What was it you promised Michael? Australia? Australia. It would have to be that far.”

“Is that a threat?”

“You have not forgotten what it is to sit in this chair. If the war had gone on, if I had died, you would be here, making the same decision.”

“I wouldn’t need to. I certainly wouldn’t have fucked Jessie Eden, of all people.”

There was so much he wanted to say at that, about blame and what he had and had not asked for, but it rose in a cloud of words which in his exhaustion he could not piece together. So he returned to the bedrock of it all. 

“We are a family, and we are a company, and the greatest asset we have is our reputation. If half of this ever made it out of these walls, we would lose it. And we almost deserve to. In less than a week, I almost died and we were publicly humiliated in front of every fucking member of the City Council, in front of every worker, and everyone else who was capable of picking up a fucking newspaper. And I have let the person that caused that live—don’t  _ fucking _ tell me that this was some halfwit startup gang, none of them could shoot straight, let alone think at Jessie Eden’s level—I  have let her not only live, not only live in my city, not only live in my city as a remaining enemy of mine who will almost certainly hurt this family and this company again—but I have let her live within fucking arm’s length of my own fucking sister!”

“As you let Grace live?”

He went still. He spoke deliberately. “You say that like it’s in your favor.”

“If you can accept that you needed Grace, you can accept that Ada needs Jessie.”

“Ada has known her for all of five seconds. And I never needed Grace. Another reason it’s not in your favor.”

“Why do you try to lie to me, Thomas? More than thirty years of it and you’re not any better than you were at three.”

“I lived before Grace; I am living after. She should have sailed back to New York.” She’d be planning her own Christmas party now, and Charlie would get wooden cars under the tree instead of wooden horses. Never touch a gun. Maybe Tommy would get a photograph, every now and then. Charlie would never see the inside of a hospital until he was well into his twenties…He felt dizzy. Fucking  _ focus. _

“...can’t stop her,” Polly was saying.

“I’m not stopping her.”

She gave him a look. “You’re not firing Ada?”

Was he the only one left who still paid attention to whether or not they survived? “Ada can’t be given confidential information.”

“Why do you think she’d betray us?”

“She just did!”

“Not as a  _ man _ , as a family.”

“There is no fucking difference.” 

She got up. “I’m bringing it up at the next family meeting.”

He stared blankly up at her. “You don’t want to have that conversation.”

“I think Finn can handle it. He’s of age. And it’s about time we found out whether we live in a democracy or not.”

“This is what you want a split vote over? This? Ada doing paperwork, and Jessie fucking Eden?”

“Find a compromise, Tommy.”

“I’ve compromised already beyond all common fucking sense.”

“Language, Tommy.” It was Ada. Karl and Charlie were at the door with her. “Are you ready to go, Pol?”

“Just about.” As she trailed off towards the door, Polly threw one last look over her shoulder. “Think about it.”

  
  
  
  
  


Tommy had smoked a grand total of six cigarettes by the time Polly’s maid rapped timidly on the door. He barely lifted his head out of the cradle of his hands. “Is it a Mr. Solomons?”

“..yes, sir.” He’d probably fed the rumor mill, and now they’d all think he was some kind of fucking psychic. Fine. 

Alfie blustered in, his beard dripping from the incessant rain. “Birmingham is fucking worse than London. It’s the fucking air, you know. All the smoke and shit.” 

Tommy propped his head up on one hand. “Drink?” 

Alfie waved his hand in a general way that Tommy assumed meant yes. If not, he himself could drink the fucking thing until his whole family was nothing but a blur. 

“Ow’s it going, mate?” 

Tommy swirled his glass before deciding to refill it. “Family is a tricky fucking thing, Alfie. A tricky fucking thing.” 

Alfie clapped him on the back before sitting where Polly had just been. He prayed to God Alfie wouldn’t start with another anecdote. 

“So. I didn’t know we were in the fucking woods with a fucking member of Parliament.” 

Tommy finished his drink. “She’s not elected yet.” 

“Oh, she fucking will be. She’s too smart not to.”

They both fell into a silence and there was only the sound of staff members giving hushed orders and hanging up decorations. 

“If this was London, right? And we were fucking, I dunno, Finn’s age, we’d go out into the fucking fields and beat the shit out of each other.” 

Tommy tensed and squinted but didn’t say anything. 

“But we’re fucking not, are we? And I’m old as shit and you’re barely fucking holding it together. And May fucking Carleton is not Esther from Hebrew school, yeah?” 

Tommy’s mouth quirked into a maybe smile. “That she is not.” 

Alfie settled back into his chair and spread his hands wide. “So what the fuck do we do then, eh?”

Tommy lit a cigarette. 

“I’m running for Parliament too.”

Alfie guffawed. “Was there something in the air in those woods?” 

Tommy let the smile slip from his face as Alfie assessed the statement. 

“I have just one question, yeah, just the one.” He leaned in and pointed at Tommy. “Are you a fucking Conservative?” 

Now he was definitely smiling. “Polly would kill me in my sleep.” 

Alfie leaned back. “Alright, then. Let’s have another fucking drink.” 

Best idea of the century. Tommy could hardly handle the feeling of being alive with his chest in that state, with or without a bullet hold involved.

Several—more than several—drinks later, they were staggering out to the stable. Alfie’s shirt was somehow unbuttoned again and Tommy was quickly astride a horse. 

“It’s not that fucking hard, right? You get used to it.” 

Alfie roared. “You’re fucking mad if you think I’m getting back on one of those, you pikey fuck.” 

Tommy walked the horse in a tight circle around him, fucking laughing. 

“Tommy, Tommy come here. C’mere mate, come here.” Tommy dismounted too fucking smoothly for someone a bottle and a half down. Alfie put a hand around the back of his neck. 

“There aren’t many men like us, Tommy. You and me are a fucking breed of our own, you know that?” 

A mad hope flared in Tommy’s chest, but it left as quickly as it came, with the sound of footsteps. It was just Curley. Thank fuck that Charlie was still on rest at home. 

“Men that try to make blood out of whiskey, you mean?” He didn’t move away. He didn’t want to. But there was growing alarm in some part of his brain, the part of his brain that always had the exits tagged, that always knew where each weapons was in a room. He wished they were in the woods again. It was only once they’d emerged from its leafy shadows that he had realized the opportunities he’d missed. Or maybe it was a miracle that he had missed those opportunities, because Alfie was someone who might actually stay, too. Was it good or was it bad? When was the last time he’d cared about good and bad? The room swam in front of his eyes.

“Something like that,” said Alfie. 

“I wish…” Tommy put out a hand to steady himself. He missed the post, tried again, found it. 

“You wish what? Shit—”

A hand on his arm, then nothing.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He blinked once, twice and it came into focus. He was back in the study somehow and it was early-late. Alfie was snoring on the floor next to the settee where he was propped up with a compress on his head. “What—” 

Alfie started. “Good fuckin morning, mate. Should have known you couldn’t keep up with me, especially with a hole in you. Though I’d have thought that’d make it fuckin easier. Just let it pour back out, you know?” 

Tommy lifted the coat, squinted at it, decided that it must be Alfie’s, because it certainly wasn’t his. 

“Where the fuck are my trousers?” 

Alfie wrinkled his nose. “You were a bit sick. Well, you were a fucking geyser, actually. Your poor housekeeper. Lovely lady, she’s expecting her first grandchild soon, you know?” 

Tommy sighed and put his head back against the pillow. This had to be some version of hell. Polly was right and he should have gone to church more. And maybe killed fewer people. 

“Anyway, there’s some tea, mate. You should drink some.” Frances knocked, then bustled in with another tray. This one had toast, and jam and butter. 

“Bless you, Frances. I bet you’re the only reason this one’s fucking alive, right?” Frances demurred, but looked pleased. He should really thank her more. Alfie plunked a plate in front of him. “Eat.” 

Tommy complied, chewing grimly. Over the past few days, he had been chased through the woods, shot, half-drowned, dragged back through the woods, shouted at on any number of occasions, and apparently drunk so much he’d excavated his entire body. The toast, to be frank, was not much help. And even with his brain at half-speed he already sensed something was wrong. “There’s no renegotiation tonight.”

“What?”

“Or negotiation. Neither.”

“Are you fucking delirious, mate? You want me to call you a doctor?”

Tommy gave him the baleful glare of a snake that had just been stepped on. “Not if you value your life.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Why did you stay?” It couldn’t be to snoop. Frances wouldn’t allow it. The desk was locked up. The servants were around every minute, especially with the Christmas decorations. If Alfie wanted to kill someone, he would’ve killed someone. This had better not be a fucking distraction. Was it? No.

Finally, Alfie couldn’t take it any longer; that very clear, fixed look on Tommy’s face as he processed was too much to take. “Look, mate, I just wanted to talk, but it seems you’re in no condition.”

“You started talking. About May.”

“And I thought I’d ease you into it with a drink.”

“You gave me the entire bottle.”

“I miscalculated.”

“So talk.”

Alfie took one long look at Tommy, with his clouded blue eyes and the stubborn, stubborn way he sat even though he should by all rights be lying down for the rest of the month, the set of his mouth, the endless weariness. He swallowed. “Next time, mate.” He clapped Tommy on the shoulder and got to his feet. “Promised I’d be back by dark, have some business I need to check on.”

Not for a moment did Tommy believe any of it, but he was almost relieved Alfie was going. There were all manner of things he did not understand and desperately needed to, things he might be able to understand if only he had rest. “Next time?”

“As much as I hate this fucking city...” Alfie put on his hat. “I believe I was invited to a holiday party. Tomorrow.” And then he was out the door.

Tommy groaned. 


	8. "Here, with family around, with guests, you’ll be less likely to kill each other.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Very Shelby Party

Tommy shut his eyes for what felt like a moment. When he woke up, the sun was high and Charlie was bouncing onto the couch. 

“Daddy, daddy, I saw some chickens!” 

He was followed quickly by Polly, who scooped him up. 

“Let him sleep, alright sweetheart?” She gave Tommy a look. “You know I had a bed made for you, right?” 

Tommy nodded blearily. Polly touched his forehead. “No fever, but you smell like a fucking distillery.” 

“Language.” Tommy croaked. 

“Go upstairs and go to bed.” 

Her tone brooked no argument and Tommy was in no space to disagree. He nearly fucking crawled up the stairs and into bed. He passed Ada’s worried, paled face as it seemed to float above his eyes. There were hands around his shoulders guiding him into a spare room and tucking him in. She looked like the ghost of their mother, like some fucking maternal spirit re-enacting a half remembered illness. 

Ada whispered, “It’ll be alright. Go to sleep.” 

Before anything else could be said, he was asleep again. It was perhaps the first time in many years he’d obeyed anyone. In his defense, it hadn’t been intentional.

Ada shut the door as silently as she could behind her. He was going to kill himself like this, slower than a bullet, slower even than drink alone. Jesus. 

Polly was sitting in her armchair, curled and poised with a cup of tea. She checked her watch. “He has eight hours to rest, but there are a lot of rich donors who will want to rub elbows with Mr. Thomas Shelby, OBE.” 

Ada shrugged. “Do what you did for Karl, that seemed to work.” 

“It’s not the flu, he’s just fucking exhausted himself. The idiot. How’s Jessie?” 

Ada’s face bloomed. “She’s fantastic. It was lovely to  see Arthur too. Billy’s growing like a beanstalk.” 

Polly gave her a sly smile, and Ada didn’t know whether to look innocent or laugh. The fun option was laughing, so when Linda swept in, with Lizzie on her arm, she found the two of them laughing like schoolgirls over a stolen note.

“Lizzie!” Both Polly and Ada went for her at the same time, resulting in a confused half-hug between the three of them, and then a polite hug apiece for Linda, separately. 

“What happened? Thought you were on bedrest,” said Ada, one arm round Lizzie’s waist (it would have been her shoulders, but then, Lizzie was taller than any Shelby ever had been), while Polly stood back and inspected her figure with a critical eye. 

“Ruby’s getting big and strong,” Polly concluded.

“It’s Christmas,” said Lizzie. “We had to come. Couldn’t miss it.”

“And I didn’t have any of the worthwhile news for her,” said Linda. “Business aside.”

Ada paused. “What’s the worthwhile news?”

Lizzie pointed at her. “You have a new beau and Tommy was phoning round in the dead of night about a dress shop?” 

Polly and Ada looked at each other.

“Let’s get some tea first, at least,” said Ada.

Later, after they’d all settled into chairs pushed into a rough semi circle and all had tea cups and cigarettes in their hands, Lizzie tapped her hand against Ada’s knee. “So? Who is he? Where did you meet and why is Tommy so angry?” 

Ada took a long drag at her cigarette. “When isn’t he angry. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to rest a little?” 

Lizzie waved her hand flippantly. “I’m fine! I’m pregnant, not on my deathbed.” 

Linda piped up. “I heard it was another communist. You have your type, don’t you, Ada?” 

Polly looked like she was going to burst with laughter. 

Lizzie leaned forward as best as she could. “Go on, tell us before I have to piss again. I swear, it’s every two minutes.” 

Ada stared intently at her own fingers. “It is a communist.” 

Lizzie squealed. 

“I knew it! Go on then, where’d you meet?” Linda asked.

“Have you fucked yet?” 

“Lizzie!” Ada still hadn’t looked up, although she was blushing. “The Garrison, sort of. Tommy thinks that, um, there’s a threat to the family. With this new beau.” 

Lizzie pressed a hand to her stomach. “Tommy’s an idiot. Does he treat you right?” 

Ada nodded. 

Linda was practically bouncing in her chair. “But what’s his name?” 

Ada cleared her throat. “Jessie.” 

“Ooh, like Jessie James? Is he American?” 

Ada fiddled with her hair, still refusing to meet anyone’s eye. 

“Jessie Eden.” 

Linda looked at her feet, studiously inexpressive; Lizzie looked straight at Ada, one eyebrow raised. Then they both looked at Polly.

When Polly looked back at them, the expression under her smile was a very pointed reminder that she had once run the whole family single-handedly and still remembered how to wield the destructive power of the throne.

Surprisingly, it was Linda who spoke first. “It’s about time you met someone anyway. It’s not good to stay in mourning forever.” 

Not a ringing endorsement, but close enough. When she patted Ada’s hand, Ada could almost see her vibrating with the sheer number of questions she was suppressing, but by some miracle (or possibly by the built-up discipline of being a God-fearing woman? Who fuckin knew, Ada was no Biblical expert) she kept them all down.

“He is an idiot,” said Lizzie, flatly. She lumbered to her feet. “It’s been two minutes, time for the piss. I’ll be back.”

Polly put a hand on Ada’s arm, and waited till Linda had helped Lizzie out of earshot before she said, “That’s not so bad, is it?”

Ada shot her a look. Polly patted her hand. 

“Well, you did it, and that’s what counts.” 

Ada sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Jesus.” 

Polly produced a flask.

“It’s barely noon, Pol!” 

“And you just told a Quaker you fucked a Communist woman!” 

Ada held out her teacup. 

A moment later, Karl burst into the room followed moments later by a somewhat less steady Charlie. 

“Mum! Did you know Uncle Tommy has tattoos?”

She scooped Charlie onto her lap and he began to play with her necklace. “I did.” 

“Can I get tattoos?” said Karl eagerly.

“When you’re older.” 

Polly leaned in. “You know how you get tattoos, right Karl?” 

He shook his head, looking solemn. “They take a big big needle and they stick it in you thousands of times. I have it on good authority that Uncle Tommy cried the whole time.” 

Karl looked stunned. “I thought he drew them on.” He looked at his mother for confirmation that Polly was telling the truth, and she nodded. 

“Do you have a tattoo, Mum?” 

Ada paused, thinking of the small rose on her hip. “No. It’s time for lunch, Karl. Take Charlie and go see what Cook made.” 

After depositing Charlie, who only let go of her necklace after she pried his fingers away, Karl took his hand and led him towards the kitchen. 

“I’ll go check on Tommy,” said Ada. “Where did Linda and Lizzie go?” 

“I’ll find out. Make him drink water. Lots of it. Pour it down his throat like it’s corn and he’s the goose we’re making into foie gras.”

“Understood. And Polly?”

“What?”

“Thanks.”

Polly waved a hand, and then they went their separate ways. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Down the long corridor, Polly heard voices, soft at first, and then, as she reached the end, louder.

“—not like that.” That was Linda, definitely.

“That’s exactly what it is!” Lizzie. “That is absolutely, precisely, exactly what it fucking is. Jesus, just let me be upset for the one fucking moment! We can’t all be perfect painted dolls, like you. Sometimes I just need to be fucking angry!”

Polly paused by the door.

“Be angry, then,” said Linda softly. “But we’ve been gone too long for it to just be a visit to the bathroom.”

“A piss.”

“Either. And Polly will be down any minute. So get it out.”

“Jesus.” A thump.

“That’s it. Oh—this isn’t much of a bed rest, is it.”

“Ruby will clearly have to be able to take more than an upset mum, sitting down. This is as easy as it’s going to get for her.”

“No, it won’t. It’ll get better.”

“Why? Look at me, look at you. I know you’ve got cocaine in your purse.”

“She’ll have what neither of us have.”

“A whore for a mum?”

“The name. She’ll be one of them. She’ll inherit it all.”

“It doesn't even work for them. Look at them, look at John. Fuck—” And now she was sobbing, like his name had caught even her by surprise. “They all have such good fucking intentions. Such good intentions, when they start. And all the reasons in the world, and here we are.”

“Come here. Lizzie, love, come here.”

The sobbing became muffled, and Polly, mindful of her heels, backed slowly away.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Ada tapped at the door before stepping in. 

“I told you, Karl. Go talk to your mother.” Tommy’s voice was somehow hoarser and deeper than usual. He rolled over, exposing the tattoos that had so fascinated Karl. “Oh.” 

“I brought you some water. Pol says you ought to drink the lot and I’ll bring in more.” Tommy accepted the cup with trembling hand. They both ignored it.

“Is Jessie Eden lurking in the shadows somewhere?” he said.

“Don’t be stupid. She’d just try to shoot you outright, and when it didn’t work she’d be a martyr and it’d all be fine.” 

He tried to sit up but couldn’t and before he could refuse, Ada’s cool hands were on his back, propping him up and arranging pillows. 

“Drink the water. I’ll be back in a bit and if it’s not all gone I’ll send Karl back in.” She paused at the door on her way out. “I love you, you idiot. Get some sleep, too.” 

Tommy cleared his throat, thought about it, then gave up and just drank some water. 

_ About right,  _ thought Ada dryly, but somehow she felt sure that they would find their way back now. Good. Good. 

When she found her way to a little alcove just off the kitchen, Polly and Lizzie and Linda were there, at it again, only this time apparently about the horse woman. Ada was just pleased that apparently she didn’t have to answer any of Linda’s questions.

“But I thought he was over that whole ‘fucking a rich girl’ phase,” said Lizzie, looking for all the world like a woman talking about a distant relative. Not a one of them was fooled, but it went on well enough. “Does he not realize that he is a rich girl now? This house, what’s the difference?”

“The difference is in his head,” said Polly. “And it might be worse than that.”

“Worse how?” That was Linda, who, when you got down to it, when you really let her in, was as big a gossip as any other woman who wore wide-brimmed hats to church. The way she patted the seat next to her for Ada and offered a twist of licorice was immediately the nicest thing she’d ever done for Ada, precisely because it was so offhand. Things could be normal. They would be.

“She was with him the entire time in the woods, for one,” said Polly.

“That’s not so bad, so was Alfie fucking Solomons,” said Lizzie.

“Unless…” said Ada.

They all thought about it.

“No,” said Polly. “It’s the pride of men, will stop them every time. The problem with the woods is that she turned up at the hospital afterwards. I thought she’d been scared off before. Almost certainly. And if not by the fucking guns, then by the marriage.”

“If you’re right and she’s changed her mind, though, won’t he get tired of her?” said Linda. She sounded optimistic about it.

“That’s a fair point,” said Ada, “She’s pretty, but she was dead quiet when I met her. I think she tried once to say something to me? And then she fled. How long do we give the novelty of it all?”

“She did win the Derby, once.”

Another moment of consideration.

“There’s a difference between funding a horse and having anything to do with its success,” said Linda, but she sounded less optimistic than before.

“Is she coming to the party?” said Lizzie.

Polly nodded. “The fundraiser, at least. He’s had some kind of look on his face, and he looked this morning like he’d drunk a small pond’s worth of whiskey, but that could be anything. Doesn’t mean she’s gone.”

“It could,” said Linda.

“Or it could mean that she’ll be sitting next to you next Christmas,” said Lizzie grimly.

Linda made a face. “We could have Christmas with the Lees?” 

Polly leaned in. “Speaking of, did you hear Frank and Matilda got married? Don’t quote me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she pops out a baby in five months.” 

The conversation flowed from there, and Ada felt her shoulders descend just a little further. They hadn’t cast her out. It was fine. Charlie had migrated back from the kitchen with jam smeared around his mouth and had been sitting on Lizzie’s lap as much as her stomach would allow, looking rapt. “Oh! She kicked!” Charlie was quickly surrounded by the Shelby women and hands pressed against Lizzie. 

“When I was pregnant with Karl, he kicked so much I couldn’t sleep at night. Little hellion.” 

“Michael never kicked, but I was sick until I was six months along.” This engendered a series of sympathetic clucks. Lizzie tried to stand but eventually needed the women around her to prop her up. Polly surveyed her critically. 

“Well, I hope she gets your height, that’s all I can say. Intimidate the fuckers.” 

“And who is she meant to be intimidating, Pol?” Lizzie laughed. 

“Oh, Tommy is going to be awful with a daughter. When Ada started going out, he’d ask Peakys to follow her and if any men got too close they’d get punched.” 

Ada nodded. “I spent a month crying before Tommy told me and then I gave him a black eye. Oh, speak of the devil.” 

Tommy looked marginally less dead, but still not ideal. Charlie squirmed out from under Lizzie’s feet and threw himself at his dad. 

“Hello, everyone. Pol, I think there’s an issue in the kitchen. Cook’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown.” 

Muttering something about doing everything herself, Polly left with her skirts swishing behind her and Linda, with her ever present desire to be useful, mirroring her footsteps. Ada scooped Charlie up and propped him on her hip, using her fingers to wipe at his jammy mouth and cheeks as she left the room. 

Lizzie suppressed a sigh. She’d have been able to flee, too, if it weren’t for the baby. “Hello, Tommy.” 

“Lizzie.” He looked round him as the last of them left, as if to confirm that it really was only Lizzie and him, alone. It was. 

“I’m sure you’re busy tonight,” said Lizzie, and almost smiled when he sat down. These other women may have had rings and horses, but she knew almost on instinct the way he moved. To give him an out was the surest way to make him stay. 

“How’s our girl?” 

She could feel the weight of his attention, like a thicker air, like a foreign but familiar presence in her chest. “Aggressive. Or a show-off. She was all but boxing, just now, for the girls.”

He ventured a gentle smile. “And what does Polly say?”

“She hopes the girl will be tall, and says you’ll be awful with a daughter.”

Tommy produced a box of cigarettes. Any other time, and it would be an insult not to have one offered to her, but now it was a comfort. Lizzie took pity on him.

“Something about having Ada followed when she got old enough?”

“I had almost forgotten about that,” he said.

“Ada clearly hasn’t.”

“What would you do?”

“Kill them all myself, most likely.” 

A smile flashed over his face, then disappeared. Because, thinking about it, it was funny until it wasn’t. Lizzie knew men. She knew them far too well, in all their ugliness. That was why it was nearly not a joke. 

Lizzie could read him, could see the two things, the mental image and then the reasoning right after. Not for the first time, she wanted to ask,  _ is that it? Is that part of it? That I’ve seen more blood than even you, in my own way? _ As with all her questions, she locked it up unanswered.

“It’s fine,” she said. “You’ll have her watched, some. I’ll have her taught some. Polly’s ways. And mine. And she’ll learn how to box. You have to admit, there’s always a situation where help doesn’t come. It’s why you wear glasses.” She put a hand on her belly and was almost disappointed when no kick came. 

“She won’t be surprised or confused about any of it,” Lizzie said quietly. “She’ll be prepared.”

Oh God, that was bad. How it was that she could get into saying all the things she’d rather not say, even when she’d had so much practice with him when he had slid into that quiet contemplative look, was beyond her. This was usually the point at which he’d offer her a cigarette. Wait for it—

He reached for the kettle.

“It’s empty.” He stood. “I’ll be right back.”

You have maids, she wanted to say, but it was better to watch him return.

As she watched his back retreat—had he gotten thinner?—she settled into a chair and sighed. Her feet hurt. So did her breasts, her back and her heart. She’d loved his brother, yes. But Tommy had something beyond John, some fucking animal magnetism. He wouldn’t let her go. 

Sometimes, at night, she pretended that the child would grow up with a father who still spoke a few words of Italian, and would cook for them and take them to church. Jesus. Was it Angelo, still, or was it wanting to be a wife? Did it matter? Who’d have a whore for a wife, anyway? Certainly not Tommy Shelby, OBE. Ruby, since she was definitely not about to argue with Polly, kicked at her stomach. Lizzie put her hand against where the foot? Elbow? had connected. “It’s me and you, sweetheart.” 

“I’d like to think I have something to do with it, eh?” Tommy brandished the kettle. “Tea?” She smiled. 

“Thanks.” 

Tommy sat across from her eyes glued to her stomach. 

“I know, I’m a fucking elephant.” 

“Aren’t you meant to be on bed rest?” 

Lizzie shrugged, idly. “It’s Christmas. And I heard you were making some changes in the business, thought I could help. Take diction.” 

Tommy shook his head. “No. She comes first.”

Lizzie sighed. “It’s Christmas, Tommy. I didn’t want to spend it in a hospital, and the doctor says if I don’t exert myself or get any kind of shock, I’ll be alright.” 

He cleared his throat. “Well. I’m glad you’re here. Can I...” He hovered a hand tentatively over her belly. 

“Oh! Yes, it’s fine.” 

He gently rested his palm and Ruby responded with a flutter. 

“Hello, sweetheart.” he murmured.

Tommy looked up and caught her eyes and somehow it was more intimate than all the times he’d been on top of her, sweating. She smiled sadly down at him. 

He caught that smile, and for the first time in a long while, managed to surprise her in a way that had nothing to do with business. She could almost hear a click, see a spark behind the eyes, and then he rose, a little, and she flinched back. How many times had she thought of this, and she flinched back? 

_ Good,  _ one small dark part of her said.  _ At least you still know what you ought to be doing. Even if you can’t, every other time, in the end. _

But he had his hands empty, palms towards her and low, like a demonstration to the police that he had no guns, and after a second, she leaned forward too, forehead to his and none of it soft. 

“She will be safe,” he said. “I promise you. She will.”

A different touch, maybe, then, but the same script. This was the part where Lizzie was supposed to say  _ I know,  _ but she was not his wife and so was not obliged to lie to him when he needed it, not obliged to cosign his lies either. The closest thing she could say was  _ I knew what I was getting into,  _ and that was an indictment of herself more than anything else. A child could not know what it was getting into. Ruby would just have to take it from her that most little girls had it worse. And develop a right hook.

How to save her from this, however, a broken and familiar man, was a puzzle Lizzie wanted to put off for as long as possible. 

There was nothing to say to him. And even if there was, she had taken too long. She touched his cheek.

“I promise,” he repeated, and then he was getting up, slowly. He stood there, and she didn’t understand why in the first moment, like intimacy had overrun that part of her mind, and then she realized he was waiting to be dismissed.

Sure enough, he said, “Is there anything else I can get?” and now it was at last clear and easy to know what to say.

“No, I’m all right.”

He lingered in the doorway longer than he needed to, and then she heard his footsteps go down the hall.

  
  
  
  
  
  


A few minutes passed measured out through the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway before Ada bustled in, her hair in curlers. “Have you seen Charlie’s teddy? I’m trying to get him to take a nap but he won’t go down without it.” Lizzie tried to bend over but found she couldn’t so she pointed. 

“Under the chair.” 

“Oh, bless you. He was driving me up the wall.” She paused, scanning Lizzie’s face. “Are you alright? Tommy wasn’t horrible, was he?” Lizzie shook her head and tried to paint on a smile, before she burst into tears. 

“I’m so sorry,” she managed to say. “It’s Ruby’s fault, really. Last night I started to cry because I saw an advertisement for washing up liquid.” 

Ada knelt next to her, placing a gentle hand on her back. “I know, love. It’s alright. Here, I had a bath running, but Charlie’s going to take a while to get to sleep anyway. Why don’t you take it?” 

Lizzie nodded, sniffling, and with Ada’s help was out of the chair and on her way upstairs. After she’d disappeared into the guest suite, Ada sighed. Whatever Polly had splashed into her tea cup had long since worn off, and grumpy Charlie and restless Karl were not helping the situation. She lit a cigarette and took a large drag before squaring her shoulders and going into Charlie’s bedroom once again. 

Sure enough, Charlie was making mischief. Thankfully, his little suit for the fundraiser that night was still safely draped up high on a table, but he’d gotten all into the lower drawers of the armoire and had dozens of pieces of clothing on the floor: pairs of little socks, ties, underwear, undershirts, one blue mitten. 

“Charlie, what did I say when I was just here ten minutes ago?”

He wrinkled up his little nose. “I have to go to bed. But it’s early. Look!” He pointed out the window.

“I said you have to take a nap.”

“Naps are for babies!”

“That’s not true. Everybody takes naps when they need them. Even your dad takes naps. He took one today, remember?”

“I don’t need one!”

“Yes, you do, because there’s going to be a party later today. You can’t go if you’re all tired, and you want to go, don’t you?”

“No.”

Ada found herself resorting to the basest of appeals. “There’s going to be cake.”

Charlie didn’t give it even a moment of consideration. “I wanna stay home and eat the cake. Now.”

“Okay, but the cake’s for the party.”

“Then I don’t want any cake!”

“What about the rest of the party?”

“I hate parties! It’s all loud and everybody pinches my cheeks and there’s always people I don’t know, and the people Dad hates are always talking to me!”

“What people?”

“The feckin cavalry!” 

“Charlie.”

“That’s what Arfur calls them.” Now, was Arthur’s name biffed on purpose? Probably. But it was still cute. Ada tried to keep stern and on-topic.

“Those are your uncles from your mum’s side, Charlie. And they won’t be at this party.”

“Well, they’re not my real uncles. And I hate parties.”

“I am your real aunt, and I am telling you, it is time for a nap.”

“You’re not my mum!”

“And yet here we are.” He had taken to saying  _ not my mum _ as of late, apparently having gotten mileage out of it with one of the maids, or something else that Ada hadn’t figured out yet. “Aunts have power too, I’m afraid. Look at your dad. He still has to listen to Aunt Polly sometimes.”  _ Thank goodness. _

Charlie eyed her suspiciously, unconvinced.

Ada sighed. Of course, it would be better to just will him into bed, but she couldn’t do that, not with this stubborn one. So the carrot it was. “I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

Charlie settled into bed, still reluctant. 

“Once upon a time there was a brave young boy named Charlie. He lived in a big, big house with his daddy who loved him very much and he had horses in the backyard.” As she continued on, eventually having Charlie defeat a mean dragon, his breathing smoothed out. 

She carefully left the room and almost walked smack into Tommy who was lingering in the doorway and had shrouded himself in enough cigarette smoke that he looked practically ethereal. 

“Jesus, Tommy,” she hissed. 

“Ada, listen. There’s a chance something might happen tonight, alright? If it does, you get to Lizzie and to Charlie and you keep them safe. Do you have your gun?” 

“What’s going to happen?” Her brows were knit together. “Tommy.” 

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe it’ll all be alright. But if it does, you take care of them.” 

She laughed quietly. “It’s a bunch of rich toffs here to feel better about themselves by eating caviar and donating to orphans. Why would there be any trouble?” 

“Ask Jessie.” 

Her nostrils flared and she set her jaw in that stubborn way she always had. She was mad, but that was alright. She wouldn’t hurt Lizzie or Charlie. Even if she hated him, she loved them. 

“I need to get ready. Go back to bed, you stupid git.” Even in her rage, she still slowly, carefully shut the door before storming down the hallway. Lizzie, bless her, had redrawn the bath so there was still warm water. She sank in and shut her eyes. 

  
  
  
  
  


Across the household there was the quiet murmur of preparations from the kitchens to the maid’s rooms. Dresses were laid out, corsets laced tight, Charlie eventually roused and stuffed into a small suit. Tommy downed a particularly noxious concoction Polly had foisted on him followed by some whiskey before pulling on his trousers. Linda had offered to zip Lizzie up and they commiserrated about stretch marks as Linda helped put on her shoes. Polly painted her face with the quick motions from years of practice and buttoned her own dress before Ada walked in weighing the individual merits of two lipsticks. 

Eventually, everyone was polished and ready and they had congregated on the main staircase with Tommy at the head before they heard the first car pull up. 

In the last minutes before they all dispersed, Tommy gave out orders like they were going over the top. “Polly, keep an eye out for anybody new. Linda, Mrs. Peabody is the key to her husband’s purse, and she enjoys talking about Sunday School curricula. At length. Ada, you take Dorian’s circle; he likes brunettes and he likes buying books by questionable German authors, your favorite kind.”

“Does he read them?”

“I highly doubt it, so don’t argue, just laugh at whatever he says.”

“I was already going to.”

“In a friendly fucking fashion. Charlie, Karl, I know it’s going to be a late night, so if you feel tired or you want to go up to bed, talk to Mary and she’ll take you up. Lizzie, that goes double for you.”

“Is she going to tuck me into bed?” Lizzie said dryly.

“If that’s what you need.”

“Tommy?”

“What is it, Arthur?”

“Do I have a target?”

“Your target is four glasses of champagne at most.”

“Pretty fucking difficult.”

“I have faith in you. Right!” They heard the purr of a motor. “Jesus, they’re fucking eager to give their money away. It’s five minutes early.” Tommy stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray hidden just behind a bright spray of flowers.

“Maybe they can’t wait to see you, Tommy,” said Ada.

“Or maybe,” said Polly, in a voice that made all eyes turn to her, “It’s something much better than that.”

The door opened. 

“Were you taking the family photo without me?” said Michael.

They erupted. Arthur reached him first with a hearty clap on the back, but he was quickly passed from Linda to Lizzie to Ada to Finn, finally ending in a one armed hug from Tommy. 

“You look thin. Were they feeding you?” 

Michael, smiling, pulled Polly into a hug. “I missed you too, Mum.”  

Not relinquishing her hold on his shoulders, she pulled him into the fray. “I’m glad you’re home.” 

However, before the conversation could turn to Aberama Gold and life away from London, the doors swung open once again and a well dressed woman in blue stepped in, alone. 

“I know I’m early and I’m dreadfully sorry but—” she turned after her coat had been taken and was confronted by the sight of the entire Shelby family staring down at her. “Oh.” 

Tommy, for once, had nothing to say.

Michael poked Arthur in the side. “Which one’s this?” he whispered. 

“The horse one,” Arthur rumbled back, not quite quiet enough. May gave a smile that almost managed to hide the panic in her eyes. 

“May Carleton. Pleasure.” 

Linda was the first one to break, leaving Arthur’s side and descending the stairs. “

It’s so lovely to meet you. I’m Linda Shelby. Would you like anything to drink?” 

Lizzie and Ada made eye contact, but before anything could be said, another clutch of guests arrived and the family scattered. 

Ada found Thomas and pulled him away from the bar. 

“Tommy.” 

“I know.” 

She made eye contact for all he tried to avoid it. “She’s having your baby, Thomas. I know she’s not your wife, but Jesus.” 

“May and I aren’t—” 

Ada waved that away like it was cigarette smoke. 

“All I’m saying. Be fucking considerate.” 

“You’re one to talk.” 

Ada grabbed the glass that Tommy had been filling out of his hands and walked off into the foyer, greeting guests as she passed by. Tommy huffed out a long breath, grabbed two more glasses, and strode into the slowly growing crowd. 

  
  
  
  
  


As the night wore on and guests came and went, Tommy found it difficult to slip in and out of conversations with the same dexterity that he usually had, either because he still lacked several pints of blood, or because Mrs. Peabody was actually a demon sent straight from Hell specifically for him. After a ten solid minutes of talking about the municipal education system, or rather listening to a monologue so dense that Tommy felt like his eyelids were being physically forced closed by a slow, giant hand, he felt a hand on his arm. Suddenly he was quite wide awake. 

“I’m so sorry, can I borrow him for a minute? Thanks. Ooh, love the hat, by the way. Love that hat.” 

It was Linda. Unreasonable as it was, he felt disappointed. “Wasn’t she your duty? And what happened to the...fucking Bible puppets, or whatever it was?”

“She settled that weeks ago. She’s onto literacy rates now.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s a worthy cause.”

“You talk to her about it, then.”

“I will. And you should talk to him.” She steered him as deftly as a master ballroom dancer in the direction of the main doorway, where Alfie stood, glowering. When he caught Tommy’s eyes it was like a shot. 

Tommy hadn’t been in the Somme for nothing. He knew when he was in danger, despite what Polly thought. And Ada. And Lizzie. And with that in mind, he promptly turned and headed straight for the kitchens. 

He’d finagled a bottle from the kitchens and settled for sipping from it for a few moments. Not too many, of course there were guests and bills that had to be paid and Lizzie to be checked on and Ada, fucking Ada. 

“Mind if I join you?” It was May, looking for all the world like a fashion plate come to life. If it had been twenty years ago, Ada would have tacked up her picture by her side of the bed and gazed adoringly at it whenever she played dress-up. 

He grunted something that could have been an affirmative, and made room on the couch. He even passed the bottle, which, really, was going above and beyond as a host. 

May shook her head. “Talk to him.” 

Tommy set his jaw. So that was why she was here. A fucking setup.

“It’s going to happen sooner or later, Tommy.”

“Is it?”

“I told him to come after the party,” she admitted.

“And it never occurred to you that he’d prefer interrupting?”

“It did.”

“But?”

“If I’d taken him here on any other day, you’d have kicked him out. Here, with family around, with guests, you’ll be less likely to kill each other.” She said it like it was the most obvious and natural thing in the world. How long ago had it been that she was nervous of maids hearing him sneak into her room, and now she was negotiating détente between him and Alfie? Jesus.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

“May.” He caught her arm, but she extricated herself just as quickly. 

“Tonight, Tommy.”

  
  
  
  
  


Back in the high-ceilinged main room, the champagne was flowing and the chandeliers set May’s blue dress off to great effect. Almost as soon as she appeared, a woman swooped down on her from goodness knew where. Breathtaking, but a little alarming. Luckily, May had been well-trained for champagne-flavored party ambushes.

“Hello, Ada,” she said calmly.

“Hello, May.”

“Lovely party.”

“It really is.” Ada passed her a glass, and they both stood there, sipping and admiring the scene, until Ada said, suddenly: “So how much did you donate?”

“I haven’t yet.” 

“Well, why not? You’re talking to the family treasurer right now.”

“The check’s in my purse. By the door.”

“Why don’t we walk over and get it?”

May put her empty glass down. “Is there a difference between now and an hour from now?”

“It’s a fundraiser.”

“Yes.”

“So if you made the donation now, you could leave. Mission accomplished.”

May glanced over. Ada didn’t seem to be very drunk, so that explanation was out the window. “Do you have any particular reason for wanting me gone?”

“I heard you drove yourself. The roads might be a bit difficult, getting home. ”

“Or they might not. Did someone send you? Polly? I’ve been told she handles—how did he say it.”

“‘Matters of the heart?’ Yes, and matters of the cock also, but I didn’t need Polly to come and talk to you. Do you see that woman?”

“Green dress?”

“Yes.”

“Do you recognize her?”

May wished she’d kept a bit of champagne left in her glass. Now would be a good opportunity to take a sip. “Of course. Lizzie Stark. How far along is she, three months?”

“Four.”

“Well, congratulations.”

Ada finished her glass. “I’ll pass that on to Tommy.” 

And things were different now, of course. This wasn’t May in her grandmother’s dress, waiting and ultimately driving home alone. Still, her stomach swooped. “I see.” 

Ada flagged down another server, who swapped out their empty glasses with full ones. 

“My brother has never been very nice. Not to women, at least. To anybody, really. Not for a long while.” 

“Ada, I’m not here because—” she couldn’t even fathom the because. To make some sort of last ditch effort to win his affections. “I understand the situation. There is some business I have to address with your brother, but it’s strictly—” 

The situation, as it were, came over and gave Ada a kiss on the cheek. “Hello, you.” She turned to see May. 

“May Carleton. I train Mr. Shelby’s horses.” Ada looked horrified and delighted at once. 

“I know who you are, Lady Carleton.” Lizzie’s hand flitted protectively to her belly. 

They stood, more or less frozen for a moment before May straightened. “Well. I just needed to check in with Tommy before I left. Ada, I’ll have that check to you in just a moment.” 

Before she could make her way towards her purse, Lizzie’s arm shot out and grabbed hers. 

“Wait. Lady Carleton, I know you don’t want any advice from me. But Tommy, well. He’ll break your heart.” 

May softened. Thank God she’d taken precautions, because she couldn’t fathom the toll that  raising Thomas Shelby’s child would take on her. “I know,” she said.

Ada, who’d downed another glass in the time they were having this conversation, laughed. 

“I’m so sorry, it’s just—Tommy? He used to piss in the bath. He’s fallen off the roof of our old house at least three times, and he was afraid of our neighbor’s cat for most of his life. He’s not worth it, not for either of you.” 

The image of a hopefully young Tommy looking miserable in a bath popped into May’s head and she couldn’t help but giggle. Lizzie joined in, and soon the three of them were laughing together. Tommy emerged, saw the three of them together, and promptly fled. 

Still laughing, they watched him go. “It’s only a bit of business,” May said, when it was over. “It’s probably my good fortune that he doesn’t love me. I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“Look at me,” said Lizzie. “I can’t even fucking drink.”

May and Ada made little  _ ughs  _ of commiseration.

  
  
  
  


Across the room, Tommy was appearing to listen to a portly alderman talking very earnestly about the construction of a new chapel, but really eavesdropping on Michael and Polly. He was fairly sure that they both knew he was eavesdropping.

Michael was finishing up a long explanation of his successful attempts to sabotage the campaigns of prominent politicians on the side of alcohol legalization. For a Peaky, it was quite mild; not even one beating, although copious amounts of blackmail. Polly, for her part, seemed to be in ninth heaven; she had interjected all of maybe a dozen words, at most, but that was exactly how Tommy knew she was happy. Although at the end, she did point out that Michael could’ve saved himself $400 and half a week’s worth of work if he’d only threatened Candidate A instead of Candidate B.

“You’re going soft,” she said, but she said it so proud. He could hear the relief in it, and he couldn’t blame her, either. It was what he hoped for Charlie, what Ada hoped for Karl. Wasn’t it what they all wanted? But, if he was honest with himself, Polly was the only one likely to get what she wanted and probably the one who deserved it most anyway.

He was quite lost in this, and then he was literally knocked out of it by a burly shoulder shoving his own. “Tommy!” 

Tommy cleared his throat. “Alfie. This is Alderman Myers. Alderman, this is Alfie Solomons.”

Bless him, the old fellow was so poor of sight that he grabbed Alfie’s proffered hand, stretched out on his toes, shoved his face close, and beamed. “Very pleased to meet you.”

“Alright, yeah,” said Alfie, bemused by the appearance of a human man neither feared him nor wanted to want to kill him. “Very good, now go away, will you?”

The alderman appeared unperturbed. “Very good talking to you, Mr. Shelby,” he said, and scuttled off. Tommy hadn’t said a word during the whole conversation.

He turned to Alfie. “What?” He wasn’t drunk enough for this. Alfie wasn’t drunk enough for this. Nobody at the party was drunk enough for this. Jesus Christ.

“Did you take care of them?” Alfie said.

“Who?”

Alfie tapped Tommy’s chest through his suit. It still fucking hurt. Tommy suppressed a grunt. “Yes. Fuck, of course.”

“Oi. You’re the one what got shot on your own land. Don’t fucking ‘of course’ at me, mate.” He lit up a cigarette, and didn’t offer Tommy one.

“You came all this way to ask if I took care of the men who tried to shoot me? What kind of fucking question is that? Alfie.” Alfie’s lighter was either out of fluid or massively tricky. In either case, Tommy could only stare at him with growing impatience for so long before he whipped out his own lighter and lit the cigarette for Alfie. “What’s this about?”

“I’m only asking, mate, are you sure you get every one of them.”

“Yes. It was Jessie Eden and some organizers ramming a bill through City Council. While we were distracted. They got lucky, it was an incompetent fucking team-up and they had internal divisions like a fucking mixed brigade.”

“You’ve killed them, or you’ve locked them up, or you’ve exiled them, or you’ve—”

“Of course I’ve fucking killed them. Of course.”

“Watched them die?”

“Shot and set them on fire. Waited till the screaming stopped.”

Tommy saw him exhale, slowly. Then Alfie put on a big fuckoff smile and adjusted his hat. “Right. Guess I’d better get into it, then. I’m going to have to drink a lot of fucking champagne to make up for the money I expect you’ll be pulling out of me later.”

Tommy stopped him. “Is that why she had you come, then? So you could confirm they’re all dead? Fuck, she could’ve asked me herself.”

Alfie shook his head. “You think I know why I’m here?”

Tommy almost smiled. “She’s got you on a lead line, is it?”

“Wot’s that?”

“A lead line. A long rope, you hook it to a halter—never mind.”

“If one of us is a horse, mate, it’s not me.”

Tommy couldn’t fucking figure it out. Alfie looked happier, talking about her, but there was something else there too. God, there was always something else. Why couldn’t even just one part of his life ever be fucking settled?

“So you fucking left your nice bakery and drove all the way up to Birmingham to go to a party for a horse.” 

Alfie pointed at him “A horse with a charity.” 

Tommy sighed. Either he was too drunk or not drunk enough. He wished Polly hadn’t taken the bottle from him. 

“I’ve sommat to say.” 

Tommy stared coolly at him.  “Go on.” 

But before Alfie could, there went Mary, Charlie on her hip and Karl trailing behind. 

“Dad!” Charlie squirmed enough for Mary to let go with an apologetic look and he, trailed by Karl with icing on his face, ran towards Tommy. 

“Well who are you two, then?” Alfie squatted, grunting when his knee made a dangerous noise. 

Karl spoke up. “That’s my cousin. He’s only three. And that’s my Uncle Tommy and he has tattoos.” 

Alfie nodded and turned to Tommy. “Tattoos, eh?” 

Tommy, over Charlie and Karl’s head mouthed a silent  _ fuck off _ . 

“I have some too, want to see?” Karl’s eyes were almost perfectly round and he nodded frantically. 

“Jesus. If you let my nephew get a tattoo, I’ll tell Ada and then lock you in a room together.” 

Alfie gave him a look and extended his hand to Karl who prodded at the crowns delightedly. “And what’s your name then, eh?” 

“I’m Karl. My mum named me after Karl Marx who wrote a book.” Alfie roared.

“You know what, I take it back. She and Rachel are perfect.” 

“Rachel did some bad things.” 

Alfie shrugged. “We all have.” 

Polly walked by, Michael having been distracted by Isaiah and the promise of some fireworks, and lifted Charlie onto her hip. Karl abandoned his examination of Alfie’s hand and grabbed on to her unoccupied hand, chattering to her about tattoos. Pointedly ignoring Alfie, she spoke. 

“Thomas. There’s a bit of a situation downstairs.” 

Before he could respond, Alfie bounded over to the doorway. 

“Rachel!” 

As Tommy headed off, she turned around, only to spot Alfie, and then turn back. He grunted. “Oi. Jessie.”

“What?” She looked, for just a moment, afraid to be with him. Because of who he was, or because of who they’d been, he couldn’t figure it out. But she had such self-possession that it smoothed over almost immediately.

Alfie let it go. “He’s nice, innit.”

Jessie laughed. “No, he isn’t.”

“The little one, I mean. Karl.”

“I suppose,” she said, a little anxiously.

“Eh. What’s that?”

“I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“He’s a boy, he doesn’t like anything. He doesn’t remember anything. Just buy him a stick of candy.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it fucking is. He’s a kid. Go upstairs and sneak him down for the fireworks.”

“Like I’m a smuggler and he’s your rum.” She said it mockingly.

“Exactly.”

Jessie rolled her eyes.

“It’s easy, with kids. You can buy their love and it’s alright. As long as it’s not sugar every meal. Or so I’m told. Me, I have cake morning noon and night and it’s never hurt my fucking condition.” He smacked his own chest.

“I’m sure,” Jessie said dryly. But they were both smiling now.

“Listen,” he said. “If I leave the party, or if I don’t see you, you have a good night.”

“Don’t tell me you’re expecting trouble.”

He smiled. “I’m not.”

“Alfie—”

“How many times have you told me I’m too fucking rude, eh? And it’s polite to say goodbye. So. Goodbye.”

He beamed, too widely, then put his hands on her shoulders, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and all but fled out of the room.

“What the fuck was that about?” said Ada, coming up behind her.

“I think he was giving us his blessing, or something,” said Jessie, bemused.

“As if we need anything from him.”

“He means well.” 

Ada wrapped her arms around Jessie’s waist and planted a kiss where her neck met her shoulder.  

“Fireworks? Or...” 

“Or?” 

“Well, there’s some open guest bedrooms.” 

Jessie turned around and rested her chin on Ada’s shoulder. “We can do both, you know?” 

Ada beamed. “Alright. Let me go get Karl.” 

“I can, if you’d like.” 

Ada paused, then smiled slowly. “Yeah. That’d be nice. I just have to check on Lizzie.” 

“Alright, I’ll meet you here.” 

After a surreptitious glance around—the few stragglers were too soused to notice or care—they kissed once, quickly. 


End file.
